Chosen
by Stupe
Summary: Yautja females have died out, and yautja males have discovered that human females are capable surrogates. Anya, a human female, discovers herself courted by a high ranking male.  Part 2, Start of a New Life is up.
1. Chapter 1

"What are you thinking?" Anya asked perceptively, staring at Ivy who was fixated on the giant skulls around her front door. Ivy shook her head, then tore her attention off them to look at her for a moment.

"I guess there's no harm in telling you," she sighed, seeming to come to a decision. Motioning at the skulls, she said, "I've never seen anything like that before. I mean, normally they place what they consider their greatest trophies outside the dwelling of a female to impress her. It also indicates their strength, their experience and their level of skill to other males, sort of putting them on notice. This, though..." she let out another breath.

"It's a fucking Tyrannosaurus Rex," Anya snapped.

Ivy nodded. "Or something similar. And a Queen xenomorph. This yautja is like nothing I've ever come across before. He's gotta really be something."

"You want I should put them outside _your_ front door?" Anya asked snarkily, detecting a hint of longing admiration in the other woman's voice and behavior.

She looked affronted. "He'd just bring them back," she said, as if she'd already thought about that. "And probably kill me for the perceived transgression."

"Well I can't leave them there. There's _kids_ in this neighborhood, damnit. I can't let them see this shit." She huffed and put her hands on her hips. "Fuckin' homeowners' association is gonna go apeshit when they get a load of this."

Ivy nodded sympathetically. "I'll tell you this much, Anya: this yautja is definitely a very high rank. I'd assume he's no youngster, either, based on these skulls. Since he took the trophies after the kills it means he'd personally done the deed. It's not like he found them dead on the side of the highway." She drew herself up. "This is why I sent the cops away. If your yautja shows up and sees your house surrounded by armed men, no telling how he'll react. Being that I suspect he's an older male I assume also that he has a lot less personal contact and tolerance with human males."

The news startled Anya. _Seriously_? she thought. "What about you?"

Ivy shrugged and twisted her lips into a tentative smile. "I'm female. Provided he decides I'm no threat, he should be okay with me being here."

"Should be," Anya repeated flatly, stunned.

"I'm not armed and I plan on keeping my distance from you in case he's watching. Do me a favor and don't try to touch me."

"This," Anya huffed, "is a fuckin' nightmare. How do I politely decline?"

"_Decline_?" Ivy echoed, then actually laughed. "Oh honey, there's no declining. This is a signal of his intention to court you. Where it goes from there is anybody's guess." She crossed her arms and went back to studying the skulls again. "You did something to attract his attention and his interest. Any idea what?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Surprising. The younger males usually initiate some sort of contact prior to courtship to test acceptance. If nothing comes to mind it might mean he's made the decision to pursue based on pure observation. It's another thing that makes me think we're not dealing with a Newblood or a Youngblood here."

Newblood: a relatively-speaking young male who'd successfully completed whatever level of expertise that awarded him the recognition to be marked with the sigil of a Master-level yautja. The details were vague since they didn't tend to share their knowledge or their customs with the humans they dominated. Presumably the only ones who could answer those questions were the females they took as their own, but since they were removed from human society those questions continued to be unanswered.

And youngBlood: they'd been at the business for awhile but were still considered novices by the older, experienced males of their kind. Still absolutely nothing to mess with; even an unBlooded yautja was capable of killing a human quite handily.

Anya knew this because, like everyone else for the past sixty years, she'd been required to complete an annual course on the subject of the hunting monsters that passively ruled them. Passively, because humanity was permitted to proceed as before. Yautja made no demands other than tolerance of their presence and the right to pursue females. It was understood that they had none of their own, and it was assumed that once it was discovered that human females were capable of gestating their young they'd staked a claim on the planet.

Ivy's walkie-talkie crackled with a man's voice, and she lifted it so she and Anya could hear a man telling her that a three-block canvas was complete and that now the local PD would be leafletting out as far as a mile from Anya's house. They, Anya knew with horror, were telling the neighbors of the situation, answering questions, and requesting that they steer clear of her and her house. Great, she was now a pariah.

Lifting the walkie-talkie to her mouth, Ivy said, "I would recommend a one mile canvas with this one, lieutenant. And another mile out for the leaflets."

There was a hesitation before the man replied, "Copy that. Might take a few days."

"I advise you to make it a priority," Ivy said briskly.

"Copy that," he agreed, but didn't sound happy about it.

"Ground Zero," Anya muttered under her breath, glaring at the skulls on either side of the three steps up to her front door. How the hunter had managed to get them here without a forklift and a flatbed or anyone noticing was beyond her ability to imagine. The T-Rex thing was at least five feet long, with a jaw full of one-foot dagger like teeth. And the xenomorph Queen with her ornate, arching comb was at least as big. They had to weigh a ton. So much for her azaleas.

"I just don't want anyone trying to confront him or interfere," Ivy said briskly, clipping the walkie-talkie back to the waistband of her pants suit. It ruined the line of her jacket. "Got a bad feeling about this one, I have to admit."

"So...what now?" Anya asked, her tone dejected.

"Take me inside?" Ivy requested.

"Sure. Just follow me past the giant skull lawn ornaments." She led Ivy up her walkway and climbed the steps. "Some people have gnomes, some people have pink flamingoes, but oh no, not me..."

She opened her door and led Ivy inside her living room, flipping on lights as she went. When she got to the kitchen she heard the other woman's soft gasp and turned around, wondering, _What now_?

"He left your weapons," Ivy said, hands on her hips as she stood in front of Anya's stocked gun cabinet. It was framed by a collection of antique guns that were displayed on the wall around it.

"So?"

"So," Ivy said, lowering her hands and turning to face her, "I can only think it means one of two things." She shook her head, unsure. "Or maybe both, I don't know. This one is doing everything outside the norm."

"Great. That's reassuring to hear," Anya snarked. "They usually take guns or something?"

"Oh, yes. We know of incidents where they were shot in the process of courting. Removing the weapons removes the temptation. I've walked into situations where they'd even removed the knives from the kitchen."

"You know...I need a drink. Can I get you something?" Anya decided abruptly, turning back for her kitchen.

"Sure. I'll take a beer if you've got one."

It surprised Anya; wasn't Ivy 'on duty' or something? Then again, she decided she didn't give a shit. She went to her fridge and retrieved a bottle, then pulled a shot glass from an overhead cabinet and the whisky from her liquor cabinet. No beers for her tonight. She needed something with a little more _oomph_.

"Glass or bottle?" she asked Ivy.

"Bottle's fine," the other woman assured her, moving slowly through the living room and taking everything in.

"Here, then. I'm sticking by the whisky till the bottle's empty," she announced, some defiance in her tone. If life as she knew it was officially over she damn well intended to be drunk. Ivy stopped perusing to cross the living room and meet her on the opposite side of the breakfast bar that separated the two rooms, and lifted the bottle to her lips. Anya filled the shot glass to the rim and tossed it down. "So, the guns. Is this a good sign or a bad sign?" she prompted, picking up where they'd left off.

"Hard to say," Ivy admitted. "Obviously he's not afraid of the possibility of you shooting him. Whether it's because you don't shoot or you're a bad shot...?" she trailed off and looked at Anya.

"I do shoot and I'm ridiculously good at it," Anya advised her. "I hunt for one, I like to do range work with the pistols, and I target practice at least weekly with the rifles. I know my way around a gun."

"Okay, then that's not it," Ivy sighed, turning to look at the loaded gun cabinet again and think it over.

"You're not...like, totally flying by the seat of your pants here, are you?" Anya realized, feeling horrified again.

"With this guy? Kinda," Ivy admitted. "So then he's confident that either you won't attempt to shoot him or that if you do, you won't be able to hit him," she said, right on top of her admission. "Whichever, he's not intimidated by the fact that you're well armed and a good shot, that's for sure." She lifted her bottle and had a few pulls. "Again, leads me to believe we're dealing with a very accomplished yautja here. Probably a Master level."

"Which means I'm gonna get my ass kicked, right?"

Ivy turned to face her, her expression somewhat sympathetic. "Not necessarily, Anya. He's not interested in fighting you."

"He left my guns," Anya pointed out dryly.

"But he's given you gifts to let you know his intentions. That's not indicative of a challenge." Suddenly straightening, her expression changed. "Maybe he feels you're in some kind of danger. Or that you might be in danger. He's left you the ability to defend yourself."

Anya tossed down another healthy shot of whisky. "Wow," she said, wincing at the burn. "You don't have a fuckin' clue, do you? I mean really, we could sit here all night tossing out theories."

Ivy looked miffed. "I'm trying to help you, Anya. My theories are based on ten years of experience. If you don't want or need my help you're welcome to ask me to leave at any time."

"No offense, but I'm debating it," Anya admitted. "You're successfully freaking me out worse than I was when I came home to the giant fucking skulls on my front steps."

Ivy made a face and turned away, and Anya couldn't help but feel the other woman was desperate not to be asked to leave. She was _fascinated_. Excited, even.

"Do you have male friends?" Ivy asked.

Anya grunted. "Mostly. Why?"

"I suggest you advise them to keep their distance. This one might be old enough to have incredible discipline, but when they go on the rut they're extremely aggressive, especially to other males."

"_On the rut_? Jesus Christ..." Anya muttered, and promptly poured herself a third.

"He might not be," Ivy said hastily, turning back. "It's my belief they don't go into the rut unless they're confident of a successful pairing. He'll be aggressive in his courtship, jealous of the presence of any other male, though. He'll perceive them as interfering in his courtship. Or worse, as a threat to you."

Thinking it over, Anya tossed the third shot down. "This is a definite problem," she admitted. "I mean, my house is Times Square on New Year's Eve every day. There's a bar in my basement for chrissake. Sometimes I'll come home to a party already in full swing."

Ivy blinked. "I'm assuming he's already aware of that. But the fact of the matter is, there's a giant notice outside your front door, and his sigil carved into the door itself. It quite frankly advises other males that trespass is unwelcome and if they choose to ignore the warning, it's at their own risk. Maybe this one will be tolerant of it, but my gut tells me no way."

The doorbell rang, jarring Anya's nerves. Shooting Ivy a look, she made her way around her kitchen counter and went to open it, wondering what the hell she'd find on her front steps now.

"Annie..._dude..._" Mickey said stupidly. Behind him were Jones and Carter, who were both standing well back. "You see this shit out here?"

She debated slamming the door shut on the three musketeers, and stood there in indecision for a moment. Rallying, she said, "I'm not _that_ drunk yet."

"I'm not coming in!" Jones hollered from the walkway. Apparently he remembered his lessons from school, too. They'd separated the boys from the girls for some of the classes to explain how the yautja perceived and treated males and females differently. Males were barely tolerated on a good day and he knew it.

"Is this like some kinda joke?" Mickey asked tentatively.

"Don't touch that!" Ivy barked from behind Anya as Carter reached toward the Queen's crown. He snatched his hand back hastily and gave her a look.

"Who the hell's that?" he demanded, looking at Anya.

"Cop. I suggest you listen," Anya said indifferently.

"So it's not a joke?" Mickey decided, still unsure.

"I told you! I'm outta here!" Jones yelled, then turned and stormed toward the street.

"How the hell did this happen?" Carter asked.

"Damned if I know. Just got home an hour ago. Apparently I had a visitor while I was out," Anya said wryly. God bless whisky; she was starting to feel remarkably calm about all of this.

Until Mickey and Carter just settled into a long, hard stare with her, their expressions sad. Like she was dying and they knew they didn't have much time left with her.

"Oh, fuck you both," she snapped, annoyed.

"_Dude_," Mickey said again, then quieter: "Dude."

"Oh for crap's sake I'm not terminal!" she barked.

"They're gonna take you, Annie," Carter said, the usual joviality gone from his tone. "I mean, you're not terminal but you're _gone_, man."

"She'll be around for awhile," Ivy informed them. "Who knows? Maybe the courtship will be unsuccessful and he'll move on. Then things will go back to normal."

"_Now_ you're talkin'," Anya said, suddenly buoyed. "Why the hell didn't you say this in the first place?"

"He's out here!" Jones hollered from the curb. It made them all flinch and look at him.

"There's an excellent possibility he's right," Ivy said quietly, her eyes on the dark trees. "I suggest you boys get going. Don't touch anything, don't do anything. Just leave." She shocked Anya by stepping outside in front of her and shoving Mickey and Carter on their way. "They know me," she said quietly to Anya. "It's better if he sees me here."

"_Better_? Better than what?"

"Better than him deciding you're standing on your front step, drunk and entertaining males who are too stupid to heed his thousand pounds of warning on either side of it," Ivy said flatly.

"I'm not _drunk_ yet. I'm buzzed. I'll be drunk in about ten minutes," she said morosely, watching Carter and Mickey make their way down her walk to Jones, who was now standing in the street by the car.

Before he got into the car Mickey looked across its roof at her and raised his hand. "Dude!" he called.

Anya smiled and raised her hand, calling back, "Dude!"

He nodded then slipped into the car.

"Not smart," Ivy said. Anya looked at her. "He'll be watched closely now. You should have ignored him, or yelled at him to go." She motioned at Anya to go back inside as the car started, then she shut the door behind them before it moved off.

"It's _Mickey_," Anya protested, going right back to the bottle of whisky. "He's like, my third cousin twice removed or something."

"Oh, a relation? That's good. Better, I mean," Ivy said, sounding relieved. "Don't kid yourself, though. Male relatives have been known to object to courtships and the yautja know it."

Anya shook her head. "What were you saying before? About the courtship being unsuccessful?"

Ivy looked at her, then pulled out one of the stools on the opposite side of the breakfast bar from her and sat down. "The courtship is simply their way of assessing your suitability. He's putting you and everyone else on notice that during this time you're under his scrutiny. It's as if you're mates. He will protect you and provide for you, somewhat. He wants to learn more about you and give you the opportunity to learn more about him."

"I don't hear anything about how to make sure it's unsuccessful," Anya hinted.

"You can't _make_ it unsuccessful, Anya," Ivy said. "It just is or it isn't. He can decide for any reason at any time that you're not suitable."

"So I gotta make myself unsuitable," Anya surmised simply.

"And how do you plan on doing that?" Ivy asked archly, plainly skeptical.

"I dunno. By being the biggest pain in the ass on the planet, maybe?" she thought aloud. "All else fails, I can put some double-odd buckshot in his ass."

"Anya, look at me," Ivy said sternly. "No shooting, got it? Do _not_ shoot him."

She shrugged. "Accidents happen."

"You'll just piss him off," Ivy warned her. "There isn't a gun in that cabinet or on that wall that's capable of doing anymore than that."

Anya arched her brows, impressed. So Ivy knew guns, huh? "I got a forty five cal on the rack downstairs," she said. "And five hundred grain soft points for hunting moose." The bullets blossomed on impact and created a hell of a hole, especially on their way through and out. She loved shooting the thing: the hard kick to her shoulder, the bark of the discharge, then the crack of the bullet as it broke the sound barrier on its way out of the muzzle, all within the same second she pulled the trigger. Kick, p-too, ka-rack. Fuckin awesome.

"I'm not kidding," Ivy said flatly. "You're not dealing with a moose, Anya. None of them would take being shot at lightly; they tend to respond with lethal force. This one, there's no telling what he'll do. He didn't just earn that sigil yesterday and I'd be willing to bet he's had some experience with being shot at."

Anya heaved a sigh and poured another shot. "So where is big and bad and nasty, then?" she wanted to know.

Ivy shrugged, visibly relieved as Anya decided to drop the subject of using the weapons the yautja had left with her against him. "He might be here, he might not. He might be waiting for me to leave before showing himself." She got up, went around the counter, and opened the fridge to help herself to another beer. "They don't follow set patterns; I can only generalize their behaviors to help you know what to expect. How he chooses to go about this courtship is entirely up to him. So is the length of time it takes, whether or not he decides it's successful and if he goes into the rut. Once that happens you'll be taken and I can't help you anymore."

"So...what are you helping, anyway?" Anya asked, narrowing her eyes. "Seems to me you're helping him more than me here. Advising me to act appropriately, not fight back, not do anything to piss him off. Ask me, your being here right now is more benefit to him than it is to me." She swallowed the shot down, then wiped her lips with the back of her hand. "If you hadn't shown up I'd already be hiring a flatbed to get rid of those damned things outside and cleaning my guns."

Ivy studied her for a moment, meeting her stare without flinching. "You're right," she said flatly, suddenly, then reached for the bottle opener on the counter and popped the top off her beer. Without saying any more she lifted the bottle and drank.

"What am I right about?"

"Everything. All of it." She drained half the bottle then set it on the counter. "As a race we have certain responsibilities, certain obligations to meet. Keeping the yautja happy is one of them. If they're unsuccessful obtaining females here there's a possibility they'll either go back to considering us nothing more than prey, or worse. Those in positions higher than you or me have decided that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. And they have been assured that any female taken is well treated and taken care of."

"So what you're doing is helping the process along. Smoothing the way," Anya realized.

"That is a side effect of my work, yes. My primary interest is to keep things to a dull roar. Having a Blooded hunter hanging around suburbia is usually monumental news. People get crazy, get paranoid, when in truth they're usually safer at that time than at any other time in their lives. I, and others like me, work with local law enforcement to prevent a holocaust from happening. Yautja will, if they feel threatened, or if they feel the female they're courting is unsafe, react with a high level of hostility and aggression. Organizing a neighborhood lynch mob is a really good way to get a rise out of them. We've had towns decimated in the past."

Anya snorted. "How far past?"

Ivy lowered her head. "Last one was four months ago," she admitted, her voice quiet. Anya blinked, stunned.

"I don't envy you," she admitted.

Ivy raised her head and looked her in the eye. "I envy you," she said.

Anya blinked again. "Yeah? Maybe we could work something out. I take off in your car and you stay here. He won't know the difference."

The other woman burst out laughing. "Oh, you think?" she asked, deflating Anya as she mentally warmed up to the idea. "He didn't just mark the house, Anya, he marked _you_ as the person living in the house."

She let out a huff of breath, her mind still working. "So then does that mean if I move on, he'll follow?"

"Ah. We come to the next step," Ivy said, smiling. "The part where I make the recommendation that you relocate to a less populated area in order to protect yourself and your neighbors. And, it so happens, I have the ideal place." She raised her beer and drained the bottle before continuing. "We'd like to move you to a new location that's all ready and waiting for you."

"Who's _we_?" Anya asked, suspicious.

"My team. All female, of course. We'll help you pack up whatever you want to take and bring you to a place that's more suitable."

"And where's that? Siberia?"

"Close. You're a hunter, right? So you like the woods?"

"You're kidding...right?"

"No. I think it'll be perfect for you," Ivy said with false cheer.

"And what about my house?"

"You have time to make that decision. In the case that the courtship is unsuccessful, of course you'll move back here. But we recommend you take the time to decide what you want done with your personal effects and property."

"I'm not moving."

"You'll love the place. Small cabin, cozy. Wait till you see the view."

"I'm not leaving."

"Lots of game. Of course you'll have the necessities: hot and cold running water, electricity, satellite tv..."

"Are you deaf? I'm staying right here. This is my house. This, this bloody Blooded _yautja_ is not chasing me out of it."

Ivy looked skeptical. "Wow. You _are_ difficult," she mused. "Your neighbors are gonna love this."

"My neighbors love me," Anya said defiantly. "They got nothing to complain about."

There was a hard thud on the roof and they both looked up at the same time. Ivy was the first to look away, standing from the stool and pulling out a wallet with business cards in it. She tugged one loose and put it on the counter.

"Here's how to reach me if you have any questions," she said. "Or if you change your mind, which I highly recommend you do."

"Is...is he on my fuckin _roof_?" Anya demanded as it suddenly occurred to her.

"You'll find they're very three-dimensional," Ivy said. "They don't see obstacles the way we do. Why run around the house when it's faster and more direct to just go over it?" she asked rhetorically. "You don't mind if I hang around another minute, do you? I'd really like to see him."

Anya looked at her in disbelief. "_See_ him? Why don't you put him in your trunk and _take_ him?"

"Would if I could. Doubt he'd fit, though. Or take it very well." Anya scowled and looked up at the ceiling again. "They're not very patient with doorknobs. Might want to open one for him," Ivy advised. "Else he'll find another way in by creating one."

"Oh, you decide to tell me this _now_? Jesus, I have a brand new skylight in my-"

There was a tearing sound from by the stairs and some stuff rained down on the landing where the steps turned as they went up.

"Correction. You _had_ a brand new skylight," Ivy said needlessly. "Very three-dimensional, see? He probably saw it as an access hatch or something."


	2. Chapter 2

Wow readers, thank you _so much_ for the kind reviews and for adding me to your alerts and faves. Some of your comments made me lol!

I think I'm supposed to put in something about the screamingly obvious fact that I don't own nothin' so don't nobody go about suing me. Cuz I got nothin' and I'm sure not making money off of this. This work is the product of my mental um, _fondling_, and I thought I'd share since I've been lurking here for awhile. Enjoy...

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><p>Anya couldn't say a thing, half drunk, half terrified, half enraged. Something like that. When she was drinking her math skills went right out the window. She was aware that Ivy's flippancy was an attempt to keep her from freaking the hell out. Something grunted and there was a flash of movement on the landing then a thud that shook the floorboards. <em>Cloaking device<em>, she remembered, aware that she was seeing it for the first time she was aware of. There was a blur of movement, just a suggestion; if her visitor had stayed still she wouldn't even know he was there.

"Oh, my..." Ivy purred quietly as a whistling chirp signaled the deactivation of the cloak. It disappeared down the center and unwrapped from side-to-side, revealing a camouflage colored seven-foot-something-tall, heavily muscled humanoid standing on her landing.

Though she'd seen them before, seeing this one that was here specifically for her took Anya's breath away. They all looked intimidating but this one more so because of it; armed and armored, closing his clawed hands into fists as they came to rest on either side of his hips after he lowered them. His coloration was dramatic, a mottling of greens and browns and buffs and blacks, striped and speckled in natural camouflage that did little, against the cream-colored background of the wall behind him, to disguise his size and musculature.

"You broke my skylight. I paid eleven hundred dollars for that skylight. Wanna know how I remember that? 'Cuz it was just put in _three weeks ago_and I haven't finished paying it off yet, that's how. Fucker had a twenty year warranty, too. Which - may I add - you just voided, thankyouverymuch," Anya said loudly from the far side of the dwelling, still safely behind the barricade of the breakfast bar. Ivy hissed and tore her eyes off the yautja to shoot her a look.

He rumbled, a low sound from that huge chest like thunder. _Spirit_. That's what he saw in her. That's what had attracted his attention in the first place. Ivy chattered at her rapidly while he stared, taking her in, seeing her tension, aware that she was ignoring Ivy in favor of staring back at him. She was _challenging_ him. He hadn't understood every word she'd fired at him but he'd understood enough. She was angry and defiant and letting him know it.

"I'm not _bowing_. I just had four shots of whisky; I'll blow my cookies all over my kitchen floor and pass out. Who's gonna clean that up? _You_? I don't think so," Anya was saying to Ivy, affronted by whatever the other female had just said to her.

He came forward, jumping down the half dozen steps to her lower room and walking as soon as he landed, pleased with the way she'd flinched and shut up. Ivy had stopped talking to stare but he only had eyes for Anya, brushing past Ivy as he came around the structure that separated her from him and backing her against a wall of cabinets.

She was a small thing; most oomans were. He was counting on her to be tougher than she looked and surprisingly intelligent for her species. If she didn't demonstrate both traits he would take his leave of her and be done with this courtship. He still considered himself half-mad for even pursuing it in the first place. If she didn't prove to be worthy of his interest he intended to take himself off this planet for a good long while, as long as it took to get his head on straight. For sure he must be out of his mind to be doing this.

"That's close enough!" she barked, holding up her hand. He stopped and ticked, making a low vocalization of annoyance. _She_ had issued the challenge and now she was telling him to stop when he hadn't finished responding to it? He cocked his head and waited. "This is a helluva first date," she muttered under her breath. "What now? Dinner and a movie?"

His hair crested, crowning around his head. Was she...making a _joke_? He wasn't nearly as fluent in ooman-speak as the younger generation so he wasn't sure. His vocabulary, however, had increased exponentially with his latest batch of students and he was pleased with his ability to keep up with her words.

She was looking up at him, craning her head back to see his impassive mask two feet over her head. Since she seemed to be awaiting an answer to her question, he debated it.

"Anya," Ivy said quietly but vehemently from behind him, "I suggest you _back down_."

"What back down? I'm jammed in a corner here for fuck's sake," Anya said, not taking her eyes off him.

He listened to her response and rumbled. She _was_ angry. And her fear added a more aggressive bite to it. He'd heard of other females crying and screaming at the initiation of courtship; by contrast this one was pissed. It pleased him because her confidant anger would frighten off a lesser male who was unsure of his own dominance and his ability to force her submission. This one would require a strong, assured hand to train her.

She'd gained infamy among his students for riding into a bar's outdoor patio late at night on an unrestrained beast of burden that easily outweighed her by more than a thousand pounds, and asking one of the males for a 'jump'. The excited youngBloods had assumed it was a sexual invitation, especially since most of the ooman males present offered their assistance, and none of the females. Two of them had cloaked and followed, thinking it was a mating challenge; it turned out the request had involved assisting her with her vehicle. When they'd finally found her again she was off the animal and by her vehicle with a car full of ooman males crowded under its hood.

He'd first gone to the place she frequented with his newly Blooded students to celebrate their status and, as a responsible Master, to make sure they stayed out of trouble. She'd arrived later in the night with a small mixed crowd, stirring excitement among his newBloods. He, personally, hadn't seen anything different about her than any other ooman female and had wondered at all the fuss...until the oomans successfully roused her onto the bar's small stage to sing and dance for them. He'd watched, stunned by her raw sexuality, her uninhibited nature. Many males danced with her and touched her and she allowed it, responding willingly. But when she came off the stage and went back to her table she viciously repelled all advances, much to the amusement of the newBloods and her companions.

So he'd gone back several times to observe her, finding himself intrigued where he never had been before. She had no mate that he could tell, but many males. Interesting how they all seemed to tolerate each other in her presence, not fighting for her attention. And despite the blatant sexuality she displayed, the opportunity to touch her or initiate courtship display was only accepted during her performances or at her invitation. She was not _sa'i'vo_, promiscuous, a whore. It seemed to be a wholly accepted behavior that the males waited for eagerly. Those that tried to take their advances beyond the performance were shunned; some quite aggressively. He'd seen her make a fist and punch one right in the abdomen, a surprising uppercut that knocked the wind out of him and demonstrated her strength.

Despite the aggressive side of her she had no shortage of company or acquaintances; males and females seemed to crowd around her and more often than not they were the loudest and most boisterous group in the bar. It was because of this that the newBloods and the youngBloods had kept their distance despite the high level of interest the yautja had in her. She was seen as desirable but intimidating, a female who never stopped moving, who never gave them any opportunity or invitation to approach her.

Backed into a corner now by the presence that had so rudely advanced into her personal space, Anya slowly drew herself up to stand straight with the heels of her hands on the counter at her back, realizing she was cowering. She came eye to eye with massive bare pectorals, each larger than her head and bulging impressively from his chest. Her eyes climbed to the collar he wore to protect his neck, that sheathed it from his wide jaw to his collarbones. The mask that gazed emotionlessly down at her had lenses for eyes, a suggestion of a wide, flat nose, and four deep slashes that stretched from forehead to chin, skipping over the deep-set lenses. It covered the face of a huge head wreathed by thick black tentacle-like strands that were ornamented by intricately carved silver bands.

The only sign that the thing cornering her was alive was the slow rise and fall of that massively muscled chest; other than that it was still and silent. It put out a lot of heat, though, and standing this close she could feel it against her skin. Its mere presence was imposing. Awesome, actually. Though it wasn't doing a thing it scared the hell out of her just by _being_.

"I think I made it fall asleep," she whispered, uncomfortable. The head moved just slightly and it rumbled rhythmically, putting her on notice that it was not only awake but that it had heard her and was chuckling at her.

L'tor _was_ amused. He'd been so deep in his assessment of her that he had gone still, just taking her in. Now that she'd spoken she stirred him into action; he brought his left hand up slowly and touched her hair, delicately lifting the length off her shoulder, feeling how soft and light it was. The strands were fine and delicate with a healthy sheen to them that caught the ambient light, reflecting a deep gold. They formed clumps that curled together, framing her small face and going halfway down her back.

Very different from yautja hair with its fat individual strands, all straight and a uniform, flat black. She didn't seem to derive any particular pleasure from his touching her hair; her bright green eyes were flicking restlessly between his hand and his mask as she drew in a breath and kept it, holding herself still. Yautja hairs had a network of nerves and a light blood supply supporting each, making them sensitive to temperature and touch and a well-known erogenous zone. The same code of conduct and honor during a fight between yautja that protected their sexual organs from being targeted as a weakness also protected their hair. The rank rings that adorned it were tangible sensory reminders for those successful enough in battles to earn them. L'tor had an impressive collection of rank rings in his hair and the pinch and tug of them when he struggled with prey or battled his own kind added to his pleasure and feelings of euphoria during combat.

He tugged gently, seeing the curl in his fingers straighten, then re-spiral when he eased off the pressure. The female didn't give any indication of pain or pleasure, he noted. Leaving off with it he put his hand under her chin and cupped it around her jaw. She let out her breath then drew in another and held it again, almost as if she was expecting him to cause her some sort of pain or injury. She showed no interest in exploring his body and for now that was fine with him, though he was proud of his physique and his scars. For now she was submitting to his touch and his inspection, proving his dominance to the both of them.

He examined her face, making her blink hard when he slid his thumb across her cheek, his thumbclaw passing close to her eye. Oomans had round, flat, moon-like faces, one the same as the next as far as he was concerned. Two eyes, bulbous nose, fleshy mouth. There were no markings, no mandibles or tusks. The only way to tell male from female was by a combination of size, dress, hair length and mannerisms. Sometimes the males had hair on their faces, which made sexual identification easier.

There was another way to sometimes tell male from female and his attention fell to her chest while he purred low in his throat, pleased. His pups wouldn't starve from the looks of her milk glands. Even now they were ample enough for him to lock his mandibles around and squeeze, to hold her nipple against the fleshy part of his mouth. No telling how much larger they would get when they produced milk.

"Yo_, hey_!" she said abruptly, her voice strained as, while continuing to hold her jaw in his left hand, his right went to a breast to lift it and test its weight. She was either sensitive to touch in general, or sensitive to his touch in particular. Whichever it was, her objection didn't please him. He had the right to familiarize himself with her body, to assess her potential as a breeding female. She should already be pleased with the obvious evidence of his potential to provide for her and protect her; had she not seen the trophies he'd presented her with?

He'd hesitated with her objection; now he growled to correct and warn her and closed his hand more firmly on her breast, being sure to be gentle in case she was particularly sensitive. A male had a right to a female's body, since he took on the costly and time-consuming responsibility of caring for it. She went rigid and brought her hands up to try and bat him away. "Hands off the goods, pal!" she barked, then actually attempted to shove him away. _Rejection_? _Him_? _How dare she?_ It brought his temper up and he warned her with a vibrating, thunderous growl.

"Anya-" the other female started.

"Ivy, shut the fuck up and get out of here. And take him with you," Anya snapped, cutting her off. "Jesus Christ I'm being molested by a yautja in my own fucking kitchen!" He let go of her jaw to cover her right breast with his left hand, closing his fingers around both globes gently to feel their firmness. She gasped and went up onto her toes, arching her back so abruptly that she knocked the back of her head into the cabinet door behind her. Her reaction intrigued him and he was sure it wasn't because he'd hurt her. He'd seen her damaged; he knew she wasn't afraid of pain. Still, he was curious to know why she'd responded so strongly. He held onto her milk glands for another few seconds to put her on notice that she was not permitted to shy away from his touch, then released her.

"I...hurt you...?" he rumbled, followed by an inquisitive sound to signal his word was a question. Yautja did not ask questions the way oomans did, raising the inflection of the voice at the end. Dreadful ooman-speak. His voice was deep and slow and halting but he was confident he'd gotten the words right. She stared at him, wide-eyed, so he wasn't sure. This was, after all, his first attempt to actually speak to an ooman beyond taunting or threatening in the course of hunting it.

"It's a question," Ivy piped up. "That's what the quick trill at the end there means. He's asking if he hurt you."

"You speak english?" Anya asked, still staring at him. He nodded and she let out a quiet breath. "Thanks for the heads-up on that one, Ivy. Here I am thinking I can mouth off to my heart's content to blow off some steam and it turns out he understands what I'm saying."

He chuckled again, a chest-deep rumbling as her sarcasm again amused him.

"I wasn't sure," Ivy admitted, her voice lower.

"Alright, what the hell. So you ripped out an eleven hundred dollar skylight and squeezed my tits like melons. What's for your next trick?" Anya asked, honestly a little breathless.

Still with the temper. And the question he took to be another challenge that he debated how to meet. "Answer question," he rumbled, noticing that she'd neatly ducked and evaded. She blinked, then deflated a bit.

"No," she said, quietly, "you didn't hurt me. But I'm not stupid, buddy: the potential is there. How'd you like it if I squeezed _your_ goods?"

He trilled then growled, tucking in his chin as his hair crowned. He'd interpreted her question as a vaguely veiled threat to his sex organ, currently well protected in an armored codpiece covering his loincloth. She did _not_ just go there.

"Submit," he warned her, his voice slow. Her mouth worked but no sounds came out as she stared at him.

"Anya, remember what I told you. What I was thinking about this one," Ivy said quietly. "I think I was right."

Anya's mind spun and she assumed Ivy was referring to her assumption that this was no youngster, based on the evidence and her experience. How old of an old-timer she was dealing with was anybody's guess but she could safely suppose he wasn't particularly used to humans, understanding of their ways or forgiving of their perceived transgressions. History had taught her that her kind used to be a favorite prey item for hunting by his kind. Considered inferior to yautja, known to be sentient and reserved for only the most skilled and experienced of their kind. Somewhere along the way a human female had impressed a yautja enough to earn his attention. No one knew the circumstances or the story but it was clear that she and the hunter had developed an understanding and a relationship that led to sex. And so it was discovered that human females were capable of reproducing with yautja males, leading to the yautja outlawing their hunting and calling for their preservation.

It was entirely possible that this particular yautja had at one time hunted humans; he might even have skulls and other trophies. This would mean that the change in human status had occurred during his lifetime. That, at his advanced but not necessarily old age the reason he hadn't taken a mate was because he had trouble reconciling humans as potential breeding partners instead of prey animals. Could be that he still remembered a time when yautja had females, before they'd died out and left only males to find a way to continue their race.

She had no idea if this was a good thing or bad, but it felt like bad news to her. The younger yautja were fascinated by the human race; many of them had the basic social norms down and would know better than to grab her boobs. This one, though, was assessing her like she was something he was considering purchasing. When that realization struck she let out a shaky breath and paled. That might be exactly it: he'd consented to do his part to continue his line but his interest was purely clinical. He was, in essence, squeezing her like a melon at a market, trying to determine ripeness prior to purchase.

And this, god help her, was not what she'd wanted out of her life. She did her best and tried her hardest, and if all that resulted in was a yautja warrior intent on squeezing her cans as an introduction then locking her away somewhere and keeping her pregnant with his progeny...she felt like fainting.

"Why I want damage your milk glands?" he wanted to know, making that inquisitive sound.

She let out a shaky breath and laughed softly, struck by the sheer absurdity of the question. "Milk glands, huh?" she asked.

"Anya, whatever you're fixing to say, I'd advise you don't," Ivy said flatly.

The warning stopped her; was she that easy to read? Ivy didn't even know her but she'd recognized she was revving up for a go at the monstrous tit-squeezer.

"Answer question," it growled.

"Answer _the_ question," she corrected. "You sound like a fucking computer." She heard Ivy curse under her breath as she face-palmed while the yautja cocked its massive head and let out a low rumble that seemed to shiver the air.

"What? Too much?" Anya asked Ivy, part of her feeling insanely, gleefully determined to ensure that she was Grade-A yautja repellent. It was the whisky talking; no way would she have the nerve to behave like this normally.

The creature surprised her, then, when it said, "Answer the question." Fucker learned quick. He also, it seemed, wasn't about to let her off the hook. Apparently he would need more convincing that she was not suitable mate material.

"I didn't know what the hell you were doing," she said. "And for your information, its considered rude to just walk up to a girl and grab her breasts."

He considered a moment, then shifted and took a step back from her. Suddenly she felt like she could breathe a little easier and she sagged a bit in relief, wondering if it was possible she'd already achieved her goal and proven herself unsuitable.

"_Ivy_," he rumbled, and the other girl came to her feet. He didn't turn to her, though; he continued to stare at Anya. "Go," he ordered her. The expression on Ivy's face was classic and Anya couldn't help but smirk as her fantasy yautja told her to bugger off. Dejected, Ivy gave her a nod, then let herself out. Once that happened the smug smile wiped off Anya's face when she realized she was now _alone_ with him.


	3. Chapter 3

I'm floored. Really. Thank you so much for your interest in this story, especially for those that took the time to write a review and subscribe. You guys are THE BEST! Because of you I am posting another chapter.

For those far-more-advanced-than-me yautja purists, I bow. My dictionary of canon yautja words totals _maybe_ 100 and my characters stubbornly refuse to use only the words I have knowledge of. Therefore here and there when I need to I will exercise my prerogative to make it up as I go along; same goes for culture, society, mannerisms and behavior. I am a fan but nowhere near the level of some of the writers who post here or the readers that follow the stories. This story was never originally intended to be publicly shared but I figured, what the heck. If I'm not writing I'm often lurking here looking for something to read and I assume that there are others out there doing the same.

Sadly, I do not own or make money off of the characters or concept of Predator. So please don't anybody sue.

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><p>There was a momentary standoff after the door clicked shut behind Ivy and Anya tried unsuccessfully to come up with some sort of excuse that involved her need to go outside too. Preferably the kind of excuse that involved her car keys and left the boob monster standing in her kitchen, complacently ignoring the sound of her tires squealing when she burned rubber out of her driveway.<p>

She flinched as he moved, raising his hands to undock the lines attached to his mask. He lifted it off his face and lowered it with a rumble, attaching it over his hip on his belt. All while staring directly and unblinking at her with molten amber eyes. She boldly stared back, meeting his fierce gaze.

Yautja have heavy, thick skulls that are mostly a crest-like forehead, with two eyes placed above a mouth lined with sharp teeth and topped by a pair of tusks that frame their upper lip. One of their most striking features were the mandibles that extended from the base of their jaw on either side and followed along its curve, jutting out in front of their mouths and tipped with upward-curving tusks that grow as they age. With no cheeks and no lips, yautja used their mandibles to project expression or mood, and, while familiar with yautja because of their presence in Benny's bar over the last year or so, Anya just wasn't well versed enough to interpret the look he was currently leveling on her. His tusks, their sides touching in front of his mouth, were longer than her pinky fingers, further evidence that Ivy's suspicion that he wasn't a youngster was true.

"An'eya," he said next, then made a fist and crossed an arm over his chest as he dipped his fearsome head. "L'tor."

The gesture wasn't made lightly; at his age and rank he didn't give just anyone his name. There were those that knew him and the rest knew _of_ him. It was a sign of respect to give your name to another, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd respected anyone enough to offer it. Anya, while she seemed worthy of respect, hadn't earned his yet. But as she was a female he was courting, it seemed the courteous thing to do. Ivy could go _pauk_ herself.

"LAH-Tor?" she questioned, having trouble with the clicking tusk-against-tusk accent in the middle. He winced but nodded with a grumble. Good enough for now but she'd do well to respect him enough to learn how to say his name properly.

"L'tor," he repeated.

Her expression changed. "Yeah, well, my name's _Anya_. Not Ann-EE-ya," she said, some bite back in her tone.

L'tor bristled visibly, shocked by her disrespect. He considered, though, and deflated, surprised to hear her let out the quick breath she'd taken in reaction. She was observant, then. Keyed in to his body language enough to realize she'd crossed a line. One of his upper mandibles twitched in amusement as he realized then that her defiance was deliberate and calculated. Boldness was a respectable trait.

He turned away from her and took a long look at her dwelling, the hard surfaces and cabinets that surrounded them. He'd never been inside an ooman's personal space before and he was curious. That, and this was an excellent opportunity to learn more about this particular female who'd captured his interest.

Anya watched him, still braced in the corner against the counter. He was moving, pausing here and there to stare at something: the sink, then the stove and oven combination, rumbling as he looked at the microwave above it before turning to the fridge. He touched nothing except with his attention, moving slowly as he perused her kitchen, taking everything in.

When he moved around the breakfast bar and into her living room she dared to leave her corner so she could watch him. For god's sake, there was a yautja in her _house_. Making humongous footprints in her pile carpeting and emitting a constant low rumble like an idling diesel engine as he examined her entertainment center. Weren't there, like, _laws_ to protect her from this sort of thing? And how, exactly, to explain the damage to her skylight when she filed the homeowner's insurance claim? Did they even cover yautja damage? She wanted to find Ivy and throttle her while he made a slow circuit of the room and crossed back to the front of her house to look at her dining room table, then headed deeper into the house, back toward the stairs.

Leaning on her elbows with the bar between her and him, Anya saw him come to a halt in front of her gun cabinet, then watched his head move as he took in the antique guns she'd collected, been gifted with and inherited, displayed around it. He spent a long time with his back to her before cocking one foot back and executing a graceful and smooth turn that brought him around to face her.

L'tor was remembering something, an incident he'd observed when the weather had been cooler: Anya had entered the bar, limping badly like she'd been injured. It had stirred the newBloods at his table; there was some hushed discussion but as the oomans in the bar started noticing and reacting, the yautja table fell silent and watched.

She'd looked, as best as L'tor could tell, _annoyed_. It was mostly visible in the rigid hold of her body and her rapid, defiant limping as she strode into the bar. She was, he noted, armored and armed. On closer technical analysis, the armor proved to be a hard plastic, which surprised him; he knew the oomans' most basic weaponry could penetrate most plastics, so what kind of armor would be comprised of it? And the weapon she was holding muzzle up against her shoulder was nothing he'd ever encountered before. It, too, was plastic, with a large chamber over the barrel.

Fascinated, he tuned into the excited chattering of the other oomans that gathered around her as she, quite literally, continued to _storm_ across the room, her movements rapid and jerky and projecting agitation. Behind her, similarly armored males entered more slowly, one hanging his head and covered, almost drenched, really, with bright orange paint from head to toe.

Upon the arrival of this particular male, Anya whipped around and started yelling at him, as if continuing an argument they'd been having before entering.

"Jesus Christ, Mickey! All I asked is you don't shoot me in the fucking leg. My fucking thigh pad falls off and I tell you whatever you do, don't shoot me in the thigh. And what do you do?" she demanded, her voice high and angry.

"I shot you in the thigh," he muttered, head still low.

"Jesus Christ!" she shouted, raising her hands, still holding her weapon. "Fuckin' _asshole_."

She tossed down her arms and continued on her way, passing within ten feet of their table and slamming through a door that led behind the bar. L'tor waited with the newBloods, himself a little perturbed that the oomans were playing games with loaded weapons and shooting at each other. As far as he knew they generally weren't that savage. And for a male to shoot at a female? Shocking, and unacceptable.

When Anya came back out she was in a much calmer mood. The gun and armor were gone and she'd changed her clothing, wearing a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of tiny shorts that showed off her long, tanned legs nicely. And on the front of her right thigh, a huge discoloration was spreading and darkening, evidence of injury that was severe enough to cause a contusion. L'tor's thoughts surprised him as he issued a low growl and thought that someone should die for marring such a nicely formed female leg.

"You see this?" she demanded, stopping in front of the ooman males, all drinking at the bar now. "It looks like I got hit by a fuckin' _bus_."

They all looked and nodded solemnly, none daring to speak as she pulled up the leg of her shorts to make sure they could properly see the damage. Sitting behind her, L'tor heard several of his newBloods draw in a quick, quiet breath at the view. Yautja were not modest and they were used to the condition of nudity; while being trained they lived communally for at least the first half-century of their lives. But ooman females...even L'tor let out a breath. Females came in all shapes and sizes. This one was of more than average height and she had definition, muscle tone...and nicely shaped hindquarters, besides.

"What was the deal, Mickey?" Anya demanded, resettling the leg of her shorts around her thigh. "What did you promise me after you shot me?" There was a collective gasp from the oomans gathered around to watch and they all looked accusingly at the male.

"Aw, c'mon..." the male whined. "I said I was sorry."

"That was right _before_ you shot me in cold blood at point-blank range, asshat. Let's go," she said, holding out her hand and motioning with her fingers. The male pulled his weapon off the bar and handed it to her, causing a stir around them. Several got up and hurried out the back door to the patio, carrying their drinks. "Outside. Time to take your medicine," Anya told him as she took his weapon.

"I meant it, like, y'know, _later_," he protested.

"It is later. Keep whining and you get it twice."

He got up from his bar stool and swallowed down the entire contents of his glass. "Godamnit," he muttered as he passed their table. Unable to help his curiosity, L'tor rose to his feet to follow them out, aware that his newBloods were on his heels.

Outside on the patio, Anya motioned at the male. "Whip it out," she told him. He reluctantly removed his groin guard and tossed it onto a nearby table while other males hooted and hollered, mocking him gleefully. Anya brought the weapon to bear as the male raised his hands to link his fingers behind his head, wincing and baring his teeth as he squeezed his eyes shut. She aimed and fired, bright blue blooming over his crotch as he shrieked and collapsed, his hands going to his groin before he hit the stones that floored the patio. "Asshat," she said disdainfully, then dropped the gun on the table and limped back inside to the chorus of yells and laughter from those gathered around to watch. L'tor, standing near the door, stepped aside for her with a small nod as she passed him, aware that she didn't even seem to notice him.

Brought back to the present by the shifting of the female across the room from him, he straightened his stance. Those weapons, he'd since learned, were toys that shot balls of dye with compressed air. But a quick analysis showed him that the weapons in this structure were _not_ toys. He was familiar with ooman weapons, enough to know that they fired hardened projectiles, enough to recognize that there was the smaller kind they held in their hands and the longer kind that had more power, larger projectiles and better accuracy. Both were in this cabinet.

"You shoot?" he trilled.

She blinked. Trill equals question, right. "Yes," she nodded. Ivy had warned her that the guns would give her trouble, she remembered. The yautja made a rapid clicking sound and cocked his huge head, putting her on notice that now she was the one being studied. It had the effect of pretty much burning all the alcohol she'd just drunk right out of her system.

"What?" he trilled, asking.

Anya straightened, her palms flat on the granite countertop. "Targets, mostly. Deer. I've hunted moose and elk. Wild boar, once." That had been too cruel for her tastes. The whole thing with the dogs and the screaming had turned her stomach enough to pass on her share of meat. She didn't want to eat anything that had screamed in terror for an hour while being chewed on by something that spent the majority of its downtime licking its own ass.

The yautja grunted and continued staring at her, making her review her answer in an attempt to try and figure out if she'd said something wrong. It took her a second to realize that she'd just admitted to killing things with her guns. While yautja didn't hunt humans anymore, the simple fact that she was well-armed and capable of killing put her higher on the prey potential scale. Exactly where she did _not_ want to be.

"If you're thinking I'm gonna try and shoot you," she said feebly, "I'm not. I mean, I only kill what I can eat, y'know?" Then she blanched and mentally kicked herself in the ass; maybe yautja were actually edible? She could throw a barbeque for fifty what with the size of this one.

His head slowly tilted to the side slightly as he regarded her. The expression made her feel like a particularly fascinating bug he'd just noticed crawling up the wall. "Self defense?" he trilled.

"Well...yeah," she had to admit. There was a loaded thirty-eight in the top drawer of her night table next to her bed for exactly that purpose. "Haven't had to. Yet." But right about now might be a good time to start. Not to say she'd never felt threatened before, but to date twenty years of off-and-on martial arts classes had given her the ability to defend herself before she'd ever thought about using a weapon. It wasn't that she was a particularly adept fighter either, it was only due to a simple truth: most people don't have a clue how to fight. Not that her lame-ass karate skills were going to help her any with this particular situation.

"Will hurt you worse than me," the yautja growled, then finally turned away from her and went back to exploring her house while she deflated and mulled that over. He'd just put her on notice, she realized. Warned her. The guns didn't scare him and neither did her ability to use them.

When he started up the steps she stared in shock, then waited until he was past the landing and out of sight before she snapped into action, hurrying after him. She found him in her bedroom, the only one on the right side of the hall, and she stood in the doorway and watched him peruse, violating her personal space. He didn't linger but he did a deliberate walk-around the circumference of her bedroom from wall-to-wall, moving around her bed to get to the far side of the room and glancing out the side-by-side windows as he passed. Again, he touched nothing; the only difference was the deep breaths he was drawing in, his massive chest expanding with each one as he cruised the space and had himself a good sniff.

Her bathroom door was open and he went in without flipping a light, examining the room. Anya had a sneaking suspicion that he had a damned good sense of smell and that either he was picking something up in her personal space or searching for something. Either way it felt like further violation, but she kept her mouth shut and just watched.

When he came out of the bathroom he moved around the bedroom one more time, then Anya backed out of the doorway as he headed toward her. He ducked beneath her doorframe, straightening again in the hallway and meeting her eyes before heading for the first of the two spare bedrooms. Her upstairs ceilings were seven foot six inches high and L'tor towered easily over seven feet tall, meaning he had to bend to pass through her six foot eight inch doorways and that the tops of his dreadlocks brushed the ceiling. At five nine she was above average height for a girl and used to towering over most everybody else. Just right now, though, she was feeling vertically inadequate.

He moved much more quickly through the other two spare bedrooms, just a cursory inspection as if to familiarize himself with the space. Satisfied, he cruised past her down her hallway and stood in her bedroom doorway for a moment, glancing between it and the stairs. With a grunt, he headed down and she crept nervously after him.

Back downstairs he was moving around her living room again, this time coming to a stop in front of the closed doorway near her kitchen. He let a low growl trickle out of him and turned to look at Anya expectantly.

"What?" she demanded. He glanced at the door, then back at her. "That's the basement." He continued to stare at her and she sensed demand. "It's open," she said meekly. "Just turn the lever and pull the door open." He looked at the door, his attention settling on the gold-toned lever doorknob before he grasped it, fiddled with it a few seconds, then figured out how to open the door.

The steps heading down were wide and carpeted, and the space opened up into an area large enough to contain a bar, a pool table and a seating area with her largest tv. He went down in the darkness and Anya hesitated at the top until she saw him disappear. She waited, listening. It was pure pitch black down there since there were no windows. She remembered learning something about yautja seeing in the infrared spectrum, basically by heat, and supposed that was why he didn't need the lights on to explore her basement. She did, though, and she flipped them on and headed down to see what the hell he was up to.

He was by the billiard table, studying it, and when she stepped down the stairs he looked up at her. "Game," he said.

"Yes. Pool."

He nodded once, then lifted his head and made a beeline for her bar. The basement was the main attraction in her house, a place where everyone came to hang out. Since she provided the location most of her friends took it upon themselves to keep the bar stocked. Currently she had three kegs on tap: Guinness, Sam Adams and the ever-present Budweiser. Behind the bar and underneath it, the shelves were stocked with every kind of liquor imaginable, and the nearby full-sized fridge was loaded with bottles and cans, as well as Red Bulls and juices.

Now, oddly enough, she had a seven and a half foot tall yautja named L'tor examining her bar with a critical eye, then surveying the room from behind it. Though the room itself was large he had a way of filling it and dominating it, completely out of place and noticeable. He moved away from the bar and went to the cafe table nearby, pausing to look at the stuff on it: someone's baseball cap, a mystery iPod that Anya still hadn't found an owner for, and a deck of cards. There always seemed to be stuff left behind after a good crowd spent a few hours, but usually she knew on sight whose it was. The iPod annoyed her since it had been here a week already. Worse, it was password protected. She'd checked.

He was by the tv now, moving between the big sectional and a matching armchair, his head moving left and right as he took everything in. Anya's annoyance at the invasion of privacy had given way to fascination with watching the yautja, observing the smooth, graceful way he moved, wondering what the hell he was doing. Though big and bulky and adorned with heavy-looking armor and she-didn't-know-how-many weapons, he maintained a stealthy lightness of movement, an ability to slip through a two-foot gap between pieces of furniture without brushing against anything. Though she didn't understand his vision or how he could see a damned thing if he only saw heat in a cool basement, he made no contact with anything, not even touching the walls with the bulkiest piece of armor that bulged a good foot from his upper back, giving him a hunched appearance.

It was utilitarian down here but kitchy. Tile floors and cream-painted walls with a wide chair-rail-height border to hide the marks from people leaning against them. The border was, of all things, Winnie-the-Pooh characters. A girlfriend had purchased way more than it turned out she'd needed to decorate her baby's room. Anya had jumped at the chance to take the leftovers, thinking of the damned footprints and pool-cue marks that adorned her basement walls right around hip-height. Besides, she loved Winnie-the-Pooh.

Besides that, there were a mess of pictures hanging on pretty much every available inch of space. Anya had a lot of friends and they liked to take a lot of pictures. It had started out as a little shrine to her grandmother, her father and mother and her sister, all dead now, then she'd started a section on another wall of pictures taken from her days of competitions: shooting, show-jumping, gymnastics and martial arts. It had rapidly expanded from there until it became a hodge-podge disaster that, actually, she loved.

Infrared vision or not, L'tor paused in front of a three-foot by three-and-a half-foot print of her aboard her favorite competition horse, Thumper, so named for his incredible ability to jump and his habit of tapping the top rails as he soared over them, whether they were two feet or five feet. She was decked out in a show habit: white breeches, hunter green riding coat, black velvet helmet, bent over Thumper's neck as he sailed over a four foot seven inch jump with his forelegs tightly tucked, a blur of spectators in the stands behind them. It was an awesome jump, the highest she'd ever dared to go with him. She'd heard he'd gone higher since, now a mount of a far more competitive rider that she ever was.

The yautja cocked his head and grunted, then retrieved his mask from where he'd hung it off his belt over his right leg, affixing it back over his face. He spent another minute studying the photograph while Anya stared at his back, wondering what he was doing, then she noticed a low sound that grew louder as it resolved itself into a growl. He turned his head and looked at her and she took a nervous step back, unsure. He grunted again and moved on, peering into her laundry room. He went in for a few minutes, came out, then started a methodical inspection of her pictorial history. Great. At this rate he'd be here till sunup, then.

Resolved to stay and watch him, Anya moved over by the bar and settled into one of the tall stools in front of it. He was, she had to admit, hard to take her eyes off of, moving with predatory stealth and still emitting that quiet, steady rumble. She'd been taught that they were intelligent, and common sense said they were. Stupid beings didn't build spaceships that could travel the cosmos. But her only experience with yautja was their presence in Benny's bar, and from what she observed they were hard-drinking dumbasses. This one, though...

As she watched, he moved like a cat along the wall, taking in each picture and pausing for an extra length of time on some. She had the sense that he was analyzing. Drinking them in. He spent a longer time in front of the two mounted stag heads, one with eight points, the other ten. Affectionately and unoriginally named Eight and Ten, respectively. Eight was wearing a New Jersey Devils baseball cap and a pair of wrap-around sunglasses that had been abandoned here for so long that someone had put them on the deer. If the iPod was here much longer she would give it to the deer, too. Ten had a string of twinkle lights wound around his antlers that were plugged into a wall socket that had power when the overhead lights came one. That, Anya remembered, had been Carter's doing. Her fault for leaving a box of Christmas decorations where he could find them. Personally she wasn't much for stuffed heads but both had been presents from a guy she'd been dating when she'd shot the deer. He'd been an avid hunter and had money to burn. Since she wasn't particularly proud of them she hadn't been insulted by her friends' decorating them. Deer was deer and she hunted more for venison than for trophies.

The predator in her basement moved along, skipping disinterestedly past certain pictures and pausing on others. When Anya took the time to think about it she realized he was paying attention primarily to any of her. Particularly to the larger ones, her 'pride shots'. Right now he was studying a twelve inch framed print of her on stage at Benny's bar, backed up by Helen, Kiki and Trish, singing her heart out with a full band in swing. She watched him pass a few others then back up to a smaller shot of a large group, herself in the mix. Paintball war, two years ago, everybody posing tough, smoking cigars, streaked with grease paint and dressed in camouflage. How freaking embarrassing somehow, seeing a yautja bending closer to analyze it. They were playing at hunting and killing; he was the real deal. _Could probably kill us all with one shot from that plasma caster_, she thought morbidly.

He trilled, a soft sound that didn't fit coming from that scary huge body, then moved on. He passed over the neon bar lights and beer signs, hesitating for a moment at a picture that made Anya burn with definite embarrassment: Halloween, last year. Mickey had talked her into that ridiculous Princess Leia outfit from Return of the Jedi, the one her damned boobs kept trying to creep out of like they wanted to see what was going on. Mickey was Han Solo, holding her chain leash, one arm around her bare waist. They'd taken the first place five hundred dollar prize for Benny's costume competition and used it to buy the jukebox that was currently near the pool table.

The yautja, L'tor, made a guttural sound and looked at her, his dreadlocks fluffing up, rising from his scalp. He was close to her since the picture was near the bar where Mick had proudly nailed it, where she happened to be currently sitting. To her undying embarrassment there was a matching picture on the wall at Benny's bar.

A smell came to her as L'tor continued to regard her through the eyeslits of his mask, holding utterly still in that way he could. She quietly drew in a deep breath through her nose, trying to place it. It smelled, honestly, like heat. Not the dusty kind the first cold night of fall that you smelled when you first put your heat on, just _heat_. The way it moves the air, the smell of sunshine and roaring flames, the conglomeration of smells that heat creates in every object it touches, all mingled together. Hot leather, hot metal, hot..._yautja_? she supposed, since it was amplified by another scent, like a subtle whiff of a strong, hoppy lager.

It wasn't unpleasant and she had the sense that these were clean beings with good hygiene, though honestly it was hard to tell with their dark, bold coloration. The hot leather smell was coming from the straps attached to some of his armor, the pouches attached to his belt, his, um, loincloth. The hot metal smell was probably coming from his armor, the gauntlets and greaves, the overlapping metal plates that covered his shoulders and upper chest. He was close enough and still enough that his heat touched her, filling the space between them and seeming to grow incrementally the longer he stayed in one place. The heat combined with the slightly acrid beer smell that had to be him, then. His scent, his aura reaching out and touching her.

It made her wonder what she smelled like and she restrained the urge to pull out her collar and stick her nose down her shirt to check if her deodorant was still effective. She had a sneaking suspicion that this particular situation might be asking too much of her antiperspirant. Alarms were going off at the Secret R&D facility right this very minute as their best formula imploded due to a so-far one minute and counting face to face yautja encounter at a distance of less than two feet.

There was a quiet, masculine rumble before L'tor eased back like an animatronic figure, a sudden, smooth glide that was unearthly. He passed by her closely, slowly, a graceful parade of muscle and power as he crossed the bar to head for the next section of wall where the pictures continued. Anya waited until he focused his attention there before releasing a slow breath, a double lungful of hops and heat that she'd drawn in and held when she'd realized that his close inspection was going on uncomfortably long.

Her nerves were becoming frayed and she didn't like it. It took a lot to knock her off her pedestal and make her uncomfortable. A lot. Until now she didn't have a clear definition of 'a lot' but after this she could put a pretty accurate height and weight to it. This yautja, godamnit, was _a lot_. And he was still in her basement, inspecting everything like she was putting it up for sale and he was considering buying.

Anya surreptitiously held up her hands, keeping them low beneath the level of the bar in case L'tor was looking. Yep. Shaking. And it wasn't just the yautja; it was everything his being here represented. The apparent _right_ he had to take her away whether she agreed to it or not. What he potentially wanted her for. _I mean, it's not physically_ possible, _is it_? she wondered, still staring at her hands and watching them shake. He was too big. Too heavy. Too strong. She didn't like big, strong heavy guys. She had a preference for guys that she felt comfortable with, that she could keep in line, that didn't try to dominate her with their size and strength.

She was starting to spiral, that stomach-in-her-mouth sensation that made her feel like the floor had suddenly fallen out from beneath her and she was just about to drop after it. Panic attack. She closed her eyes and started pulling in deliberate breaths, blowing them out and drawing them in methodically. She hadn't had one since her sister had finally died and she'd sworn to herself that she would never let herself feel that helpless, that lost, that out of control again.

But she couldn't help it. _My god, _look_ at him_, she thought to herself, glancing over at L'tor as he moved around her basement, feeling stricken. Her breathing started to speed up as her heart kicked up and the trembling in her hands became more pronounced. _How in hell did this happen to _me? she mourned. There had to be three and a half billion females on the planet at any one time, making the odds of being singled out for courtship by a yautja astronomical, since at any one time there were maybe a few thousand of them on the planet. No one she knew had this problem. Not even remotely, like a friend of a friend of a friend who knew someone who knew someone. It was the stuff of urban legends and it was prowling her basement in the middle of suburban Pasadena.

"Why are you here?" she blurted. The yautja across the room looked at her and bristled visibly, then straightened and walked to her. When he came within ten feet she snapped into motion and scrambled off the stool, her knees weak but still providing enough power to maneuver her behind the bar. Seeing it, L'tor stopped advancing, then took a deliberate step back, widened his stance, and crossed his arms.

She was clutching mindlessly, her hands moving along the edge of the bar and wishing for a weapon, but when she saw him hesitate and back away, it stilled her. He saw her panic and was being careful not to crowd her.

"Courtship," he said flatly, officially declaring his intentions.

"Why me?" Anya asked in a tiny voice.

He cocked his head at her, an endearing and harmless expression of curiosity that made her feel like she'd been squeezed onto a slide and pushed under a microscope. "You object?" he trilled.

God help her, she nodded. Vigorously. "I do," she said, leveling her voice as much as she could to come off as sane and rational as possible. If she could talk her way out of this, she would. "I have...I'm busy. _Very_ busy," she explained.

He snorted, much as he could without a nose. The sound was muffled from under the mask but an unmistakable explosion of breath that she assumed was meant to be as dismissive and sarcastic as the sound a human made. He uncrossed his massive arms and reached up to undock the tubes from the side, then lifted the helmet off his face and clipped it to his belt, never taking his fierce amber eyes off of her. She stared as his mandibles spread wide on either side of his mouth, almost as if he was stretching them after confinement beneath the mask.

"Explain," he commanded her as they settled back on either side of his face, the long tusks touching their sides together in front of his mouth as he refolded his arms.

Her father had been killed in a car accident when she was twelve. Her mother had died of cancer when she was nineteen. That meant it had been years since someone had the authority and audacity to stand in front of her and demand she provide an explanation for her decisions. But this yautja only had as much authority as she would deign to give him, and she steeled herself, determined to give him none.

"I have a job. I have plans. I'm _busy_," she insisted defiantly.

L'tor had done a fair amount of research on her as his interest became defined, then sharpened with observation. He knew she had no family, no mate, no young. She filled every available hour with people, cramming as many as she could into each second. The young yautja warriors who had first descended on the bar she frequented had sensed that this female had considerable influence among its patrons, and that if she didn't tolerate their presence they wouldn't be welcome. She had more than tolerated it, had even been curious enough to approach them and offer them refreshment. Word had spread since, and it wasn't unusual for as many as ten yautja to be in attendance on any given night. While they didn't fear oomans, if they sensed enough unrest they would leave a place to avoid conflict, as per the Elders' orders.

At this particular bar, however, they were more than tolerated. The owner had invested in yautja-sized chairs, yautja-sized tables and yautja-sized cups. He kept a good supply of whisky on hand for them to drink, and no one bothered them or tried to cause trouble. In addition there was plenty of entertainment and action for them to observe, as the bar had a stage and was populated by a number of oomans who were talented with either playing an instrument or singing. Yautja appreciated music, and though they were capable of playing their own instruments, singing was not a societal strong suit for their kind. This was one of the main reasons Anya had been noticed in the first place: her ability to sing, her sensuality when she danced. It made her a desirable and interesting female, one that stood out from the crowd.

L'tor thought about her words. _Job_. Oomans worked to earn money, currency that paid for necessities and wants. Her job needed to be taken into consideration but was not an obstacle; if she was chosen as a mate her needs would be provided by the yautja who chose her. _Plans_. Her plans did not, obviously, include him. Therefore it was rude of her to even bring this up. _Busy_. She _was_ busy, as he had observed. Rarely spending her free time alone, and usually never at her dwelling unless she was sleeping. She would just have to learn how to be _busy_ with him instead of without him.

He vocalized the outcome of his thoughts with a hard grunt, one with a low growl at the end. She was objecting to him, then. Trying to dismiss his attention with feeble excuses. Rejecting him. It was a blatant insult and he took it as such, bristling as he growled to add emphasis to his reaction.

"Okay look, I'm terrified," Anya said quickly, a hurried admission. It better aligned with the signs he was reading, the high temperature, the rapid heartbeat, the sudden need for distance. She'd initially responded with fire and defiance before settling down for awhile during his exploration. Now she was afraid.

"Will not hurt you," he said gruffly, annoyed that he even had to verbalize such a thing. _Why should she be afraid_? he wondered. He was a mature male in prime condition, showing an interest in her. She should be excited and accommodating, not behaving as if he was going to harm her. Less intelligent females of other species even understood that they were in no harm.

"But you..." she stared to object. He waited, watching her mouth work but hearing no more words. "Look," she said finally, letting out a breath, "this just isn't going to work."

"Why?" he wanted to know. He waited, expecting to be told of a reproductive issue or some other physical problem that would affect her ability to successfully gestate young. Not that that would be a barrier, necessarily. His kind's ability to cure and heal vastly minimized the possibility of such a thing being a true issue.

"_Because it won't_!" Anya barked, exasperated.

Affronted, L'tor's hands fell to his sides, fists clenched. His dreadlocks crowned around his head as he glared at her and growled in rebuke. She looked, as far as he could tell, horrified by her outburst, and she stood locked up and staring at him from behind the barrier she'd put between them. As if that would even slow him down, much less stop him. _Foolish, defiant little ooman female_, he thought, knowing that defiance would crumble if he took so much as a single step toward her.

Despite his anger, there was another part of L'tor that was secretly pleased. She was being difficult and combative and something in him liked that and responded to it. He'd had his share of experiences with ooman females, during his hunts and after. Depending on the situation, they tended to scream and cry, to run away from him, to not meet his eyes. Breeding them was immensely pleasurable, but until this one he found them weak and therefore undesirable as a long-term companion, and he was baffled by why any self-respecting yautja could be bothered, much less a yautja warrior.

There was something more alive and curious and fiery in this one that attracted him, though. She had fear, he was used to that, but she used it to fuel her anger and challenge him. She liked to be in charge and had the personality of a natural dominant. It excited him, made his blood boil and turned him on in a way that surprised him. He wanted her to submit to him and no one else, to fix all of her attention and wants and needs on him, to depend on him while maintaining her spirit and her fight. She wasn't quiet, she wasn't still, she wasn't tame or meek. He suspected that this was a female worthy of him, capable of making a place for herself and standing up to him, one that he wouldn't grow bored and tired of.

Thinking all of this cooled L'tor's temper, since his immediate reaction to any hint of disrespect was usually aggressive and physical. He would have to adjust his thinking and actions when it came to Anya, not to avoid conflict but to avoid the possibility of damaging her or breaking her spirit. Amusing, that the trait that most attracted him to her was also the trait that most annoyed him.

"Be back later," he rumbled, then turned from her and went to the steps without waiting for a response. And there hadn't been one; she'd just stared at him and watched him walk away. Now that he'd been shown how to operate the basement door he took himself to her exit door and worked the handle for a few seconds before popping it open. With a pleased trill he let himself out her front door, tapping the activation on his cloaking device as he passed Ivy, still standing outside the house. She opened her mouth as if to say something but when he melted away and moved across the grass she thought better of it.


	4. Chapter 4

Four days of updates in a row...I'm on a roll. My reviewers and subscribers inspire me! **Thank You!**

This one probably should have been split into 2 chapters but the first part is a little slow on action, heavy on insight. Anya's trying to just do her thing and stay busy, Ivy is trying to track her down, and L'tor is debating the wisdom of his decision to pursue. So you get a lengthy chapter before things start to rapidly accelerate.

Disclaimer: I don't own or make money off any Predator anything.

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><p>Maintaining full cloak though it was clear to him that while Anya wasn't aware of his presence, the initial behavior of her mount indicated that it was, L'tor continued to watch her from his perch over the fenced clearing. He was becoming increasingly agitated by her current activity, and that agitation was steadily progressing toward anger.<p>

He'd heard about this mount from his last batch of students, the quadruped mammal that she sat on the back of. She'd strapped hide to its back to sit on, and more hide around its head with straps going to her hands that L'tor assumed she used for control. Logic dictated that that meant what the mount was doing right now was under her direction, following her commands: to repeatedly charge full speed at obstacles and leap over them.

He turned up the amplifiers in his mask to hear her quietly speaking to the animal, whispering encouragement and praise, using her voice to help guide it. He could also hear her breathing, her small grunts and catches as she lifted herself over the neck of the animal just as it leapt, then again after it crossed the obstacle and landed on its forelimbs to continue moving along at speed. The mount was easily ten times her weight and mass, a large long-limbed animal with a powerful body and long, thick neck. L'tor had seen these before; they were apparently found all over this planet, used as transportation and beast of burden. Grazers, not carnivores. Even so, they were large and potentially dangerous animals for oomans...especially if said ooman was one-tenth its size and stupidly refusing to keep it on the ground where it belonged.

As he watched, L'tor recalled the large image he'd seen in Anya's basement and came to the conclusion that this dangerous activity was something she did often. He'd struggled with the primitive one-dimensional image; though his kind's vision operated most efficiently in infrared he was capable of seeing objects in a uniformly tempered environment, though not nearly as clearly as an ooman could. He'd put on his mask to utilize the built-in lenses that allowed him to focus better and see more clearly, even to change visual modes. Even so, it had only allowed him to recognize the animal in the picture for what it was, and the ooman on its back.

Now he had the full picture, so to speak, and he didn't like it. Only a species with an overabundance of females of suitable breeding age would allow one to take such risks. Anya and her mount created one large heat signature trailed by a glowing aura as their body temperatures, raised by the activity, stood out clearly. He watched, analyzing, able to distinguish one from the other, able to recognize places that produced the most heat, able even to use his mask to see deeper, past clothing and skin and hide to watch heartbeats. Both were strong but not racing. Neither was frightened by what they were doing.

The animal slowed to a walk suddenly, and Anya leaned forward over the huge neck to pet it with affection, praising it with her voice. It tossed its head and she let out some slack on the pieces of hide she used to control it, allowing the animal to lower its head. It was blowing rhythmically as it circled the perimeter of the fenced-in area, now used to L'tor's still presence in a tree at the far end and no longer reacting as it had when she'd first brought it out here.

After a few circuits she took up the strips of hide and guided her mount to the gate in the fence, maneuvering it as she unlatched it, opened it and guided him through. She crossed the dirt lot toward the structure that housed other animals of its kind as L'tor watched from his perch, then past it toward the trees beyond.

Cursing under his breath in annoyance, L'tor rose on the limb he'd settled on and started making his silent way through the canopy, having to circle the opposite side of the collection of structures since there were no trees directly between him and the place Anya had gone. He'd thought she was taking the animal back inside. Apparently she had other plans.

He followed for another hour, keeping his distance since occasionally her mount caught some sign of him and reacted. He was actually starting to enjoy himself; the exertion and rapid calculation requirements of stalking alert prey that required the utmost stealth in his movements while maintaining a brisk pace was a familiar enough activity. Much better than having to sit in an ooman bar, surrounded by them, watching and waiting. This was by far more comfortable to him, and he welcomed the opportunity to sharpen his skills while secretly observing this ooman female.

Then she did the second thing he didn't like at all. The trees were thinning and her mount started getting agitated, dancing side to side and tossing its head, though maintaining its same pace along the wooded trail. Anya was speaking quietly, laughing even as she was clearly trying to hold it back. Then the forest opened up into a field and she lowered herself over the animal's neck at the same time it took off. L'tor froze, clinging to the vertical side of a tall tree trunk, watching their rapid progression along one of the dirt paths that cut through the overgrown field. If he'd thought the animal was quick before, this, he supposed, was its full-out top speed. He did not need to utilize the onboard analytic abilities of his wrist computer to calculate in order to recognize that at that pace the probability of injury to Anya if she were to fall would be extremely high.

L'tor watched as Anya and her mount circled the large field at a hard run, coming back around in his direction and continuing into the forest for some distance before she straightened and brought its speed back down to a walk. Now completely annoyed, he followed.

By the time they returned to the place where the animals were kept, L'tor had settled down enough to think logically again. Obviously, this female enjoyed physical activity and exertion, a fact that pleased him because it was something he could relate to. She did not avoid activities that posed a danger to her, choosing even to engage in them for sport. This included shooting, hunting, playing at war games with weapons that shot projectiles, participating in some group activity that involved having to hit a thrown spherical object with a stick, and now riding this beast. Before he'd made the decision to make a potential claim on her he'd only observed her activities in that ooman bar she frequented, watching her social interactions and appreciating her skill with song and dance. Watching her activities outside the bar was showing him a whole new facet of this female.

L'tor felt a certain shame in what he was doing, courting an ooman female. _Ooman_. Synonymous with weak, inferior, dishonorable and pitifully primitive. Prey animals, except for the simple fact that their females were capable of carrying yautja young. Typical of any planet's dominant species, they thought they were superior and valuable and nowhere on the planet more so than in this particular and prosperous region. That attitude carried over into everything they did and they dared to treat even yautja with barely concealed disdain and resentment. They were bothered by the presence of a species far more advanced than themselves, far more superior in every way.

Spending time on this planet irked L'tor to no end; the pompous, disrespectful attitudes of the oomans he'd once hunted with impunity but was forced now to tolerate pricked his enormous temper. All he could think of at times was the method he would use kill this one, or what the reaction of that one would be if he were to confront him. But the rules for yautja visiting earth were strictly enforced by the Elders and confrontation without proof of dire threat was severely punished. It had happened, and L'tor had heard the stories. In the end, though, the yautja who had confronted and killed oomans in supposed self-defense were mocked and ostracized because of one simple question: _You couldn't just walk away_? What had once been considered a highly prized prey item was now a protected species. Killing one and displaying its skull as a trophy once brought great respect; now such a thing was frowned upon and brought dishonor.

He arrived before Anya and her mount, having cut ahead of them, satisfied that she would maintain the current relaxed pace. He settled himself at the base of a tree on the periphery of the clearing that contained the buildings and fences, and watched an apparent battle in progress, this time a male atop another mount. On one hand he remained disinterested and only mildly curious as he observed, but on the other hand he realized that Anya's mount had the potential to buck and thrash and fight so aggressively, too.

And speaking of Anya, she walked her animal past him into the clearing from the forest. Since she was facing the fenced enclosure where the ooman-versus-beast battle was ongoing she couldn't, and didn't, miss it.

"Hey!" she hollered, then louder, making her own mount rumble and shift beneath her as she stood in the stirrups. "HEY!" Sensing intent and not liking it, L'tor straightened from his relaxed lean against the tree and clenched his fists. Did she truly feel the need to involve herself in this altercation? As far as L'tor was concerned, the animal needed a good beating to instill some apparently much-needed discipline and respect.

The male was off his mount, holding the straps that tied to its head as it issued a roar and tried to back away while he held on. It pulled him around and around the enclosure, trying to break loose while he struck out at it with a hide-wrapped stick. Another male came running out of one of the buildings, probably alerted by Anya's yelling, and as she jumped off her mount he took control of it.

L'tor rumbled quietly, still fully cloaked and moving closer to the enclosure as Anya ducked between a gap in its horizontal boundary and entered it. The large animal had finally pulled loose and was clearly agitated; she ignored it and went straight to the male who'd been battling with it. Apparently she _was_ determined to involve herself. And instead of assisting the male ooman with the capture and and disciplining of the animal, there was an angry, rapid-fire exchange of words, most coming from Anya. Though the male was larger and armed with the stick he'd been using to beat the animal he made no physical move toward her, beyond angry gestures and return shouting. Anya sent him out of the enclosure with a vicious stream of cursing and a fair amount of threatening and he retreated, stamping in disgust and crossing the clearing to disappear into one of the buildings.

Unarmed, she then she turned her attention to the loose animal in the enclosure with her. Her tone had changed dramatically, low soothing words as she calmly and slowly pursued it as it bolted and shimmied and shied away from her, until she successfully caught hold of the straps tied to its head. It rose up over her to stand on two legs, lashing out with its forelegs, and L'tor found himself out in the open and on the opposite side of the barrier, his fingers closing on the top rail as he prepared to pull it apart. The animal came back down and Anya started moving, encouraging it to move with her. It reared up a few more times but its battling to free itself subsided as it started to move with her, still agitated and vocalizing in a high, panicked way. She kept it moving, kept speaking to it with a quiet, calm voice, steadying it with her presence. They circled the enclosure and she dared to touch it; it squealed and flinched hard, moving away, but she didn't even react.

L'tor watched, frozen and waiting for any sign that would send him through the fence. Though the situation was still volatile it seemed to him that Anya was in control, that she knew what she was doing. She continued, always keeping the animal moving, praising and encouraging, finally able to stroke its neck as it steadily subsided. When she abruptly swung herself onto its back there was an explosion of protest that muffled the crack of the board in L'tor's hands as his tension pulled it loose from where it had been affixed to a nearby post. The animal came off the ground with all fours, trying to get its head down, then bolted and galloped the perimeter of the enclosure, oblivious to the cloaked yautja on the opposite side of it, close enough to reach out and touch it. Anya stuck to its back, gathering the straps and taking control, riding out its panic with a non-stop stream of words spoken in a firm, quiet tone. Eventually she brought it under control, continuing its forward movement, pushing it now.

L'tor continued to stare, aware through his ability to see heat and dive deeper to watch heart rate that Anya had remained calm and resolute through the taming and that eventually the animal settled and started to respond to her. L'tor, too, was calming as it dawned on her what she was doing. Her actions, while dangerous for her, were soothing the animal's panic from its encounter with the male who'd been beating it. The animal was being asked to perform, to work, to obey, with no threat of punishment, only reassurance.

He watched, fascinated. He'd only ever trained unBlooded yautja. There were others that worked with animals and would better understand Anya's methodology, but the closest L'tor had ever come to something like this was to help work to restrain a kainde amedha queen for captivity. He did, however, draw an important parallel to his own situation with this perplexing ooman: that he could not treat her as one of his own kind. Yautja were yautja, and whether they were healers or educators or scientists or builders or mechanics, all were trained for the hunt, all were trained to battle to better their own rank or in defense of their clan. It was a rare yautja that wasn't eager to learn the skills of hunting and fighting, and since being trained was an honor it was often brutal.

Training, after all, was one of the early tests of any yautja's fortitude, strength, endurance and character. Masters did not reassure or comfort, and if a student did poorly he would expect to be struck or at least verbally reprimanded. If they wanted to earn themselves a worse beating or possibly even be killed they were welcome to fight back. You listened to your Master, you did as you were told, you never questioned, and you gave him the utmost respect and honor. He, in turn, earned your respect with his own skill, his own experience and his mantle of authority. No yautja was a Master without having first had many years of experience, without having distinguished himself with a high rank, a ship full of worthy trophies and a body marked with countless scars.

Watching Anya work the animal changed L'tor's perspective a bit, and gave him an understanding and insight into her character. Oomans, L'tor knew, were sensitive beings, part of the reason that yautja thought so little of them. Yautja did not form such robust relationships with others; it was considered a weakness to depend on another, to tie your fate to another, especially in a culture where most led a dangerous lifestyle and death was so frequent. Oomans were affectionate, they formed bonds, they reassured and supported and assisted each other. Made for interesting and challenging hunts but was baffling on a yautja-to-ooman level. Yautja did not offer comfort or reassurance or explanation; they demanded respect and obedience without question. In their culture when two met they could see at a glance who was more powerful, who was higher ranked, and they acted accordingly. The lesser would adopt an attitude of submission and deference, giving way to the dominant. It was expected, a cultural norm, and part of why, when confronted with oomans, most higher-ranked yautja found them irritating and disrespectful.

There was another key element to ooman interaction that fascinated L'tor: touching. Yautja rarely touched beyond an initial greeting, hand to shoulder. Physical contact was generally reserved for aggressive display, up to and including fighting. L'tor had observed countless physical interactions between oomans in the bar where he watched Anya and he was aware that the younger generation of yautja had a lot less prohibition against contact than their elders, probably due to the influence of this race. He, however, was of the older generation. You put your hands on a male to signal dominance. You put your hands on a female to force submission.

He retreated to the trees to watch and think some more on the subject, aware that his movement was picked up on by Anya's former mount, which spooked and reared up as the male refused its attempt to bolt. He couldn't help but reconsider his previous and mostly hostile interactions with high-strung ooman females. Reviewing them now, he wondered if a low, soothing tone and a gentle touch could have been all that was required to calm them and make them more receptive to his desires. He had interpreted their struggling as disrespect and had responded in kind, with punishing restraint and angry verbalizations. The only ooman females who knew how to behave were the ones that willingly approached and the ones that were for rent off-planet, where they'd been properly trained. He'd sampled both kinds and, during his days of hunting the species, had availed himself of catchable females when the opportunity arose.

L'tor was thinking, though, of his experiences with the feral ooman females. Like Anya. While he enjoyed an energetic battle as part of a good _pauk_, he knew at the same time that having a traumatized mate who required constant restraint and lacked trust was not going to work. Let others keep their females locked up; he wasn't interested in that for himself. Here was an energetic and aggressive female with fire, and he'd been pondering the probability of keeping her spirit intact while making her more accepting of his courtship.

The answer to the problem might very well lie in what he was observing right now, the patience and gentleness Anya was displaying with the animal she rode, all while maintaining her dominance and firmness. It had the effect of assuring the animal that she was in charge, that she knew what she was doing, and that if it trusted her and behaved as she asked it would be rewarded, whether with gentle physical contact or a calming voice. Her way involved only positive reinforcement, no rebuking, striking or raised voice. It was an acceptable option for L'tor to try this on her and he mulled it over, knowing he had to adapt his approach because clearly, she was far more intelligent than the animal she was working with, a far more complex being with different needs.

* * *

><p>Anya was enjoying the hell out of herself playing Go Fish against Tracy's kid, Asia, the next time she saw L'tor. He came in through the bar's open front door and walked right past where she was sitting to head for the back corner table. The other yautja-sized table was already occupied by a large group of younger ones, eight of them. Anya stared at him, watching his broad back as he went to the table and sat down, stuttering as she wondered what the hell she was supposed to do now.<p>

"You have a lady?" Asia was demanding.

"Huh?" Anya asked, snapped back to her own table as Asia stood on her chair and leaned across to pull at Anya's fan of cards.

"Lookin' for a lady," Asia said, and Anya agreeably turned her cards toward her. A lady, she assumed once her brain reengaged, was a queen.

"Oh! Gimme that one," the five-year-old said brightly, pulling at a different card now that Anya had shown her hand. Not a queen, a four of diamonds. "Now you Go Fish," Asia ordered her.

"Again?" Anya whined, deciding to ignore L'tor's presence in the bar since he hadn't made it a point to approach her.

"Two cards!" she said, nodding. Asia made up the rules as she went along, the privilege of being an adorable kid.

"Wow. I stink at this game," Anya muttered, and dutifully retrieved her two cards from the stack.

"Me see," Asia ordered. She studied Anya's hand then started plucking matching cards from the fan, proudly filling the table with pairs. When she ran out of matches she again demanded that Anya pick from the unused deck. Four this time.

There were other people at her table, of course. Carter and Jesse, Burke and Ron. Kiki had gotten up to go to the bar, helping Benny out with serving the yautja, and Anya watched her carry a huge cup of whisky, no ice, to L'tor. She put it on the table and hurried away as he started undocking his mask, removing it so he could drink.

Tracy, Asia's dad, was holding court a few tables away and he had them laughing so hard they were crying. He was a comedian, and a fairly filthy one at that, the reason he was keeping whatever routine he was doing out of his precious daughter's hearing. It was good to have him around, Anya mused. Tracy had garnered enough success to be currently be an active participant on a weekly tv comedy sketch show. He had to water down his act to be on tv, but his Type A personality and his innate funniness were successful nonetheless. The busy schedule the show demanded meant that he wasn't around to hang out as much anymore.

"I'm winning," Asia informed Anya matter-of-factly.

"You're not winning," Anya corrected, "you're _killin_' me! When's my turn?"

"Not yet. Go Fish," she said when she ran out of pairs.

Cute as hell, smart as a whip, and beyond precocious. Tracy had his hands full with her and Anya adored her. She especially loved her premonition that this kid was gonna be hell on wheels when she grew up. Served Tracy right, the womanizing bastard.

Anya burned when she became aware that L'tor's attention was on her now that he was settled and had his drink. The yautja ran tabs that they paid off with precious metals and stones, a seemingly limitless supply of them. It was a courtesy, since really, what were you going to do if a yautja came into your bar demanding service and refusing to pay? They honored their tabs, though, which was a good thing because of the massive amounts of alcohol a single yautja was capable of drinking in a single sitting. They did like their hard liquor, preferably whisky.

"Big guy's staring," Carter said, breaking off in his conversation with the others to shift uneasily on his chair. "That one yours, Annie?"

"The very one," she said quietly. Of course word had gotten around. Quickly. She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised, since apparently the cops had alerted the entire freaking town to her predicament in an effort to avoid a catastrophe. Young yautja hanging around were a headache. One of L'tor's caliber was terrifying. If people thought it was scary having one in town they should try the delightful experience of one wandering around their bedroom at ten o'clock at night.

She snorted at her thoughts, still engaged in playing the game with Asia but thinking hard. After L'tor had walked out of her house with a 'Be back later' she'd spent almost twenty four nerve-wracking hours sitting up waiting for him to drop through ripped-out skylight again before finally being able to sleep, exhausted. She went back to work, reestablished her routine, and after a few more days went by she'd assumed that she'd successfully chased him off. The skulls stayed outside her house, though, so she hadn't been fully convinced that that was the last she'd see of him.

Ivy had left multiple messages on her cellphone's voicemail, asking for 'updates' and 'status reports'. Like her current situation was some sort of project she was working on and it involved a deadline. After a few days of this, her iPhone buzzed with an incoming email, and Anya frowned when she saw it was from Ivy. Persistent as a stalker, and just as creepy since Anya couldn't recall ever having given the woman her email address.

**Dear Anya,**

**Perhaps you haven't received the messages I've left for you. Perhaps you have successfully run your mouth to such a point as to provoke a violent response from the yautja courting you. Please send me some sort of communication to let me know if you're alive.**

**Sincerely, Ivy**

Her reply had been simple and direct:

**Hypothetical question...if I do agree to go to this hunting cabin in the woods, can I bring my RPG-7? And if not, can you make a suggestion about the proper caliber of bullets you recommend I bring, since it's your belief that 500 grains are insufficient?**

Not that she actually _had_ a rocket propelled grenade or launcher. And in response Ivy had immediately answered:

**Dear Anya,**

**If by RPG you mean Really Pretty Grin, absolutely!**

**I am going to assume this somehow means that despite your attempts at sheer repulsiveness and disrespect, it has miraculously not resulted in the termination of your courtship. Kudos to your yautja for not putting me in a position to have to fill out reams of paperwork to explain to my superiors exactly why he imploded your home with you in it. Color me amazed.**

**Please call me ASAP. Seriously.**

**Sincerely, Ivy**

And now all of a sudden, here he is. Like a bad joke: _So a highly-ranked yautja walks into a bar_... She scowled, shot him a quick look, then went back to teasing Asia. Yup. Like Carter said, watching. Making absolutely zero effort to disguise that fact. Looked like he was settled in for the duration, his feet up on a regular-sized chair like it was a foot rest.

She was starting to get frantic and wondering what the hell she should do and what was expected of her when someone else walked in through the front door that caused all the yautja in the place to come to their feet abruptly. Everyone else looked in time to see no less than three laser-sights targeting the newcomer care of the three yautja still masked, freezing him in place while he held a rifle in his hands.

Anya took it in in a second and was out of her chair yelling as the place exploded with sound. She focused on the table of yautja, aware that they were all standing, including L'tor at the next table over. Boldly, she held up her hands and walked in front of the laser sights, all triangulating triple-dots that were your only warning before a bolt from the deceivingly tiny plasma caster they wore on their shoulder blew your fucking brains out. As she stepped into the line of fire L'tor issued a sharp bark directed at the other group and raised his right fist as he stepped toward the younger table, extending his wrist blades with a metal-on-metal scrape that was loud in the silence that followed his harsh bark. The laser dots winked out instantly as they stood down and lowered their heads, and Anya sent him a nod, then turned to face TJ, the idiot with the gun.

"Here," he said hastily, shoving it into her hands. "You hold it. Wanted to show you anyway."

She tossed a quick look at the yautja; all were still standing, clearly not happy about the presence of the weapon. Shooting TJ a glare, she turned from him and carried it across the bar, aware that everyone was staring at her. "Here," she said when she reached L'tor's table. "Keep an eye on that for me. It's a Bushmaster M4 carbine. Thinking about buying it, so don't break it," she added, putting it down on the table he was standing next to. He grunted and retracted his wristblades through some mechanism she couldn't see, then he resumed his seat and picked up his cup as if nothing had happened. She nodded, then shot the table of younger yautja a glare before heading back for Asia.

The kid was upset, the kind where the tears were kind of faked since she was still in the process of trying to decide if she wanted to commit and go through the effort of actually crying. When Anya approached her she stood on her chair and reached out to be picked up, then wound her arms around Anya's neck.

"That was scary," she said, apparently deciding not to cry for now.

"It was," Anya agreed whole-heartedly, and dropped a kiss on her smooth forehead. "You did good, babygirl."

"_You_ didn't," Jesse said to her harshly. "What the hell with walking into the line of fire, Annie?" he demanded.

"Figured they wouldn't shoot a girl," she shrugged, still holding Asia. Now Carter snorted and shook his head.

"A girl holding an assault rifle, but okay, sure," he said sarcastically.

"Clearly it wasn't loaded. No mag," she shot back. "What kind of idiot brings a gun into a bar with yautja, anyway?" she asked pointedly, looking at TJ. He ducked his head.

"Wasn't thinking about them," he admitted.

"Nice. Almost got your brains blown out. And in front of the kid!" Burke piped up and punched him square in the arm, hard enough to make him yelp.

"It's enough," Anya said sharply, feeling Asia tense up in her arms. "Crisis averted, so drop it."

"Yeah well I'm not going over there and taking it from the big guy," TJ said sullenly. Anya hadn't thought about that part, how they were going to get the gun back now. Pure survival instinct had led her to bring it over there and leave it by L'tor, where it would cause the least amount of discomfort among the yautja and was at no risk of being picked up by anyone else, to help calm things down.

"We'll figure that out later," she said dismissively. "For now it's fine where it is."

"Is he your friend?" Asia wanted to know. Startled, Anya looked at her.

"Who, babygirl?"

"Him," she clarified, and pointed at L'tor. Horrified, Anya let go of her with one hand to pull her arm down, but as she looked she saw that L'tor was watching, probably what had prompted Asia to ask the question.

"Yeah, he's a friend of mine," she decided, figuring it would reassure Asia.

"I want to meet him."

Everybody at the table shut up and looked at Anya. "You do?" she asked stupidly. She looked over at L'tor, back in his seat with his oddly toed feet up on another chair, exuding calm confidence and looking as relaxed as she'd ever seen a yautja look. _What the hell_, she decided, and turned to head over there.

L'tor stared at her eyes as she approached with Asia in her arms. He was sitting alongside the table to better face where she'd been, his right arm resting on its surface, big hand wrapped around the yautja-sized cup. She was nervous but it was too late to back out now. When she got closer she clearly saw his amber eyes flick to the space between him and the table before he resettled his eyes back on her face. Invitation, then. Or direct order, she wasn't sure which. But she headed to where he'd indicated and came to a stop uncomfortably close and well within touching distance.

"He's big," the little ice breaker in her arms announced.

"No doubt," Anya agreed, unable to hold back a smile.

"Can I touch him?" she wanted to know.

"He's not a petting zoo, babygirl," Anya said, once again startled by Asia's total lack of fear. As soon as she said that, the arm on the table left the cup and slid closer, his hand touching her hip where she was leaning against the table. She flinched and stared hard at him as Asia, seeing blatant invitation, leaned down in her arms to touch the yautja's huge human-head-sized bicep below the armor that rode his shoulder. He paid no attention to the kid, one upper mandible lifting as he kept his hand where it was, pressed warmly against her bare skin between her half shirt and her hip-huggers. Anya blinked, deciding that she was seeing the yautja equivalent of a smirk.

"Pretty," Asia cooed, and Anya tore her eyes off L'tor's to look at what the kid was talking about. His skin was dark and mottled, and this close she could clearly see patterns and texture in the coloration. Asia's tiny fingers were tracing a dark line that curved over the top of his arm, bordered by a hunter green and bracketed by a lighter buff. Natural camouflage that broke up his outline and made him fairly well invisible in the dark. His kind were hunters and their entire bodies were adapted to a lifestyle of predation, from the coloration to the strength and speed to the claws and agility and power. Everything about them screamed dangerous to anyone that had eyes, and here was little Asia, calling him pretty and imagining he's a coloring book.

Anya couldn't help it; she giggled nervously at the absurdity of the situation. The upper tusk rose up a bit more as he continued to stare at her face, apparently unbothered by the child in her arms. If she thought about it there really wasn't any reason he should be, though she had to admit to being impressed by the tiny bit of tolerance he was displaying right at this moment. It reassured her that maybe he wasn't just a mindless killing machine bent on destruction, along with the ruination of her entire life. That maybe there was more beneath the surface.

He was, all things considered, being delicate. He hadn't actually put his hand on her; he'd just slid it closer to rest against her side. It was an intimate thing, though, one that Anya was glad couldn't be seen by the rest of the bar. It was one thing to touch someone's hand or arm and a whole other thing to touch someone's bare flank. Her heart was pattering a bit but she held her ground, refusing to let him scare her. Maybe it was his trade for letting Asia touch him: _She can touch me if I can touch you_. Thinking that, she endured and tried not to be so damned consciously aware of it.

"Good?" she asked Asia, deciding that enough was enough. The kid had more balls than she did, no doubt. Then again the little firecracker didn't have a hundred degrees of massive, clawed killer's hand touching her tenderloin.

"He's strong," Asia announced, another matter-of-fact observation as she actually poked repeatedly at a single muscle that was bigger than her own head. The yautja continued to stare steadily at Anya, not reacting any more than a veteran pony being offered for children's rides at a carnival would.

"Yes. He is," Anya agreed. "Quit poking babygirl. That's not nice," she corrected, shifting Asia in her arms.

"But he feels funny. You try," Asia insisted, and Anya blinked.

"That's cuz that's a muscle, babygirl. Your daddy doesn't have one," she quipped. No dummy, Asia twisted in her arms to look her in the eyes, then threw back her head and cackled at the joke while Anya smirked. The yautja chuffed softly and she looked at him, wondering how much he understood.

And just then she remembered that the other table of yautja, the idiots, had almost shot her and TJ before L'tor had intervened and made them stand down. One versus eight, wristblades versus shouldercannons. If she was asked to make what looked like an easy bet regarding the outcome of that confrontation, she would have lost her money in the two seconds it had taken L'tor to win it. Ivy might have actually had a point with her hysteria over this particular yautja's rank and skill; apparently even his own kind didn't want to screw with him.

"Why don't you go tell your flabby daddy that Anya says to get on the stage?" she suggested.

"Kay," Asia agreed easily, and Anya set her down on her feet. "Bye!" she waved to L'tor, then hustled off. Anya went to move and the hand resting by her side turned as he closed his fingers around her waist. It wasn't aggressive or painful but it did clearly communicate L'tor's desire for her to remain where she was.

"BRB," she said, and when his dreadlocks flared she smirked and clarified. "Be right back." He relented somewhat reluctantly, sliding his fingertips along her skin almost ticklishly as he released her. When he did she nodded, then turned away and went to the bar. Tracy caught her partway there and argued that he couldn't take the stage for chrissakes, there were _children_ present. Only his, so technically child, not children.

Shrugging him off she went behind the bar to dig out an unopened bottle of Jägermeister and two good-sized brandy glasses, telling Benny to put the bottle on her tab. He looked at the Jäger, then at her face, then at L'tor. "Give 'em hell, kid," he said gruffly. "Nice save on keeping TJ's guts off my walls. It's on the house."

"Think that was more the big guy's doing than mine," she pointed out in all fairness. Benny shrugged.

"Bottle's for him, right?" She nodded. "Still on the house then."

"Thanks, Ben," she said, letting out a breath. The house, her tab, same thing, since she'd noticed that her tabs mysteriously disappeared. He nodded and returned to filling beer orders, leaving her to take the glasses and the bottle, duck under the bar, and head for the back table again. L'tor, she saw now, was still watching her, his brightly backlit amber eyes dropping below her face to take in what she was holding, then dropping lower as if he was watching the way her hips moved when she walked. It almost made her trip over her own feet.

She resumed her position between L'tor's extended legs and the table, placing the bottle and glasses down and cracking open the Jäger. Completely silent and still, he watched her as his heat touched her. She poured a half glass in one brandy snifter and a dollop in the other, then lifted the half-full glass and held it out to him.

"Wanted to say thanks," she said quietly, only just barely trembling, "for the save before. I think the gun made them nervous enough to maybe vaporize me."

He blinked then growled, a long, low vocalization that she couldn't interpret, then he accepted the glass. He waited until she tossed her shot down and grimaced through the burn from sweet licorice fire before trying it himself. Mandibles spread, mouth open, he drained the contents of the glass without the need to physically swallow. He closed his amber eyes for a moment, then grunted and opened them.

"Good or gross?" she asked. Jägermeister was a popular but acquired taste, and she wasn't sure if he'd like it or not. He held up his glass and motioned at the bottle. More, then. She refilled him and gave herself another shot to try and help steady her nerves. When he indicated he wanted a third shot she was surprised but poured it, deciding she was going to stop after this one whether he did or not. And he did ask for a fourth, noticing that she poured only for him and not for herself.

"Your bottle," she told him, setting it on the table after pouring some of the dark liquor in his glass. As she set the bottle down on the table his right arm shifted, his fingers closing gently and warmly around her waist again as he moved her to set her weight against the table. She drew in a sharp breath and held it but moved willingly under his hand, going where he guided her. It pleased him that though she stiffened she didn't attempt to put up a battle or dispute his touch, and when she settled where he wanted her he kept his hand on her but loosened his grip.

_Younglings take note_, he thought proudly, aware that the youngBloods at the next table were watching. The time he'd spent watching her deal with the large grazers was paying off. She was attentive to him and responding well to his light touch. So, then. Force was not necessary, which was a good thing. He was amply capable of forcing her and they both knew it. It seemed to him that she had been expecting force and was surprised by the gentleness he was showing instead.

And that's when another truth hit him: she knew he was stronger, that he didn't need to prove it. What he did need to prove to her was that he was capable of _not_ harming her. He met her eyes as she stared boldly at him, keeping his hand on her but not using it to restrain her, though he could. He could literally dig his claws in easily, puncture her soft flesh and carve through her abdominal wall to close his fingers in the slippery heat of her guts. Though not razor sharp, his claws were pointed and strong enough to support his full weight. It would be nothing to close his hand and drive them into her flank. The alarm in her eyes told him that she was aware of that simple truth, and honestly nervous of his touch but tolerating it because his lack of aggression or restraint gave her no reason to dispute it.

"Good, An'eya," he purred, watching her eyes widen. He stared, suddenly made aware of how large and expressive her eyes were in her face. The fact that they were green was lost on him; he only saw radiating waves and the subtle variations of the heat in them. He was well aware that she was staring back at him since he could track her pupil movement easily, his keen and highly developed vision allowing him to see her brows and lashes and the halo of rainbow colors around her head that was her hair.

"What good?" she breathed. She didn't move, though.

He debated how to respond to her question, feeling in his gut that she knew exactly what he was praising her for, trying to decide if she was denying it or if she required further reassurance. He chuffed again, a quiet sound that was half grunt, half sigh, feeling her go rigid under his hand and logically guessing it would take some time to settle her down. "Being still," he told her, letting the words groan quietly out of him. Speaking her language required an intake of breath followed by the arduous and complex muscular movements of his throat to shape them. It was one thing to use his knowledge of the language to track prey or use it against them, taunting them, and it was a whole other thing to try and converse. Especially in a public setting where he didn't wish to be overheard by the table of youngsters nearby. He would put up with it for now, he decided. To calm her and reassure her. But if she thought he was interested in having in-depth discussions with her she was sadly mistaken.

Remarkably, he felt her relax a bit as she continued to stare, to study him up close. The alcohol, he could smell, was at work in her system, already evaporating through her pores. It was strong stuff and she'd partaken of a lot of it. More than was wise, seeing as she was not presently under the protection of any male, save the one that was interested in her. And while he was honor-bound to protect her she had no guarantee that he was entirely honorable.

"You were good to Asia," she said quietly, still staring. He shifted his mandibles, unsure of what she was talking about and waiting for more. "The kiddo. Babygirl," Anya clarified. "Thanks for that."

L'tor listened carefully, analyzing, putting it together and translating her words. In swift succession, with logic and cognition honed by centuries of hunting and studying, he understood that _Asia_ was the name of the pup she'd been holding, also called _kiddo_ and _babygirl_. More slowly he mulled over Anya's telling him he'd been 'good' to her. It rankled a bit because he could only assume that she had an expectation that he might or would harm the pup. Why, he couldn't fathom. It was a healthy youngling, and female, probably a third of the way to achieving sexual maturity. There was no clear reason why Anya should think he, an honored Blooded warrior, would do something to damage it. Had it approached him on its own he would have responded with amusement and would have allowed its poking and prodding once he determined there was no underlying threat. That Anya had carried it to him raised its importance in L'tor's mind and added its signature to a growing list of individuals considered important to this female.

Moving on when she got no response, Anya said, "Sorry about the gun. TJ's not the brightest bulb in the box."

_Amazing_. He understood every individual word and still had no idea what she was talking about. When that realization hit he suddenly felt exhausted, then became aware that this whole encounter had been exhausting. He rumbled quietly, thinking it over, part of him rejoicing that he might quickly shed his fascination with this female and be free to move on in short order. If, at any time in the future he thought to retread this ground all he'd have to do would be to think of how this meeting had progressed so far. Then he'd go make himself a nice strong drink and forget about it again.

L'tor glanced over as a few females were calling to Anya. "Oops. Gotta run," she said briskly, then slipped from his grasp and hurried across the bar before he could gather in his mind where he wanted to go from here. Annoyed, he growled, the sound lower and deeper than the rumble, and broadcast loud enough to be heard by the youngBloods at the next table. They quickly looked elsewhere.

He would finish the liquor she'd brought him, he decided. After all, he'd earned the bottle. Doing that would give him time to think over what he wanted to do. He poured himself another healthy half-glass and closed his hand around it, thinking. On the one hand he was ready to go. On the other, the female he was courting had just consumed a large quantity of alcohol with him and was just starting to feel the effects. It would, his honor advised him, be disrespectful to leave her to her own devices without making sure she made it safely back to her dwelling tonight. If nothing else, he had an example to set for the youngBloods at the next table, some his former students. He sighed and drank, then applied himself to mulling over what she'd said about boxes and bulbs and what the _pauk_ it meant.


	5. Chapter 5

Okay, I debated taking a break today but ended up doing more writing and editing. Here you go, another long chapter that you readers can thank the reviewers for!

I had an awesome review that pointed out the canon fact that female yautja were in charge and would rip a male's nuts off for touching her boobs without permission or for 'assessing her'. Agreed! However, while L'tor has made some references to his experience with females, maybe I didn't make it clear that none of them were yautja. My personal opinion, I would think it would be tough for a human female to compete with a yautja female, or to catch a male yautja's interest if he was focused on the ladies. The traditional mating rites would go out the window if their females were gone; hence, the premise of this story. Having to capture and detain a prey species in order to procreate would certainly change the way they go about choosing mates; it's my failure as a writer if that fact was not made clear. I welcome all questions and constructive criticism, and having insightful things like this pointed out to me only makes me look over my work with a more critical eye, which makes the story better for my readers!

A special kudos to those that faithfully review each chapter and give me encouragement, insight and opinion; I look forward to your thoughts as the story unfolds. You are the reason the show goes on.

Disclaimer: I still have no ownership of Predator nor do I make any money off of it.

* * *

><p>Two hours later and still no closer to solving the mystery, L'tor dragged his attention from where it had been focused internally and turned it to the well-lit stage. He'd kept part of his awareness on Anya, watching her work the room with gleeful abandon, constantly moving and talking. She was a bundle of energy, restless, never settling down in one place for long. It wasn't because of his presence, he knew; he'd seen this behavior since he'd started coming here and observing her. This was typical behavior for her. <em>Paya help the yautja who claims her<em>, he thought ruefully, lifting his upper tusks. She would either have to be forced to immobility or watched like a suckling in a roomful of knives. The first solution would be sure to make her miserable, and the second would make the yautja who was stupid enough to claim her miserable.

He poured himself another helping of liquor, then stilled as Anya came on the stage and started to sing. Her voice rang out pure and clear and sweet and loud, drowning out all other sound in the bar until the noise stopped and there was only her and the music. Having had enough struggling with the language tonight already, L'tor merely sat and stared at her, taking it in without trying to understand the words. He listened to the purity of her voice, the passion and emotion in it, watching as she settled in, became comfortable, then started to move. There were other females singing background to her, blending their voices to add to the chorus, but Anya dominated all.

By the second song L'tor started to grind his tusks together as he watched her sensuously move, touching the microphone and its pole stand, nothing lewd or inappropriate, just soft, sensual movements of her hands and body as she swayed and sang something mournful. She was hypnotic and he couldn't help but stare, reminded again of the passion locked inside this female who seemed so rigid and stand-offish.

Her body heat had risen until she glowed on the stage, a slim outline haloed in reds, oranges and yellows, swaying and stepping in time to the beat like a hypnotic flame that stood out from the rest. The music backing her was electrified and powerful, the bass thrumming against L'tor's chest, vibrating the floorboards beneath his feet, the rest ringing in his ears. With such keen hearing the volume bordered on uncomfortable for him and for a moment he thought Anya had been drowned out by the clamor. But no, there was her voice as she picked up the song, clearly defined and in a class by itself, rising above the volume of the instruments that accompanied her, full of emotion as she projected it outward.

A male came up and joined her in a duet that built, both of them egged on by the crowd until their voices were raised high enough to be heard for some distance, twining and blending and clashing and cooling. After that he bantered with her on the stage and L'tor felt himself sliding into hyperfocus, paying close attention to body language and interaction, the voices catcalling from the audience sliding across his awareness, adding to the cacophony that was considered a good vibe in this bar. Anya held the stage while the male removed himself, motioning and hollering in a way that felt to L'tor like he was encouraging her to sing something in particular that she was attempting to argue her way out of. She gave in, singing a song that brought the females back to the stage to sing behind her.

This song was performed differently and L'tor paid close attention, aware that it was getting his hackles up. The other two songs had been been precise and clear, sung with a mournful attitude; this one was just a little looser and interspersed with playful vocalizations that were, quite frankly, sexy sounds. Sexual sounds. Lilting, husky moans in the same falsetto tone she was singing in as she moved around the stage, pacing from side to side as if directing her words to different groups of people in the bar that comprised her audience.

The song slowed, hushed, and people came to their feet silently, raising their drinks. L'tor glanced around, wondering, when Anya's voice burst out with renewed vigor, a high, clear note that filled the bar and burst out through the open doors, bouncing back to the stage from the wall behind him. Her voice twined around the voices of the other two females, rising and falling but clear and loud until it built a single high note that held, a thing filled with so much power and life he felt like he could reach out and touch it. It faded with perfect control and temperance, twirling, spinning, descending through the octaves with precision.

When it was done, L'tor was aware that his mane had flared in reaction, that his entire body had stiffened and his focus had narrowed on the small female standing on the stage who was baring her teeth as the rest applauded her. He understood that this was a rare talent and it was appreciated by the rest but it spoke to him on a deeper level. Her reluctance with him was by no means an indication of her personality; it was merely a facet. She was choosing to be difficult, to be a challenge. A female's right in courtship, a means by which she could test the mettle of the male that was vying for her. Right now she was displaying life and passion and the sensuality of her person, teasing and flirting, a complete contradiction to the stiff and rigid female who had shared a few drinks with him an hour before.

His resolve strengthened, L'tor relaxed and rumbled, then turned his attention on the youngBloods at the next table who were staring at Anya with avid and hungry fascination. He issued a gruff bark and they collectively jumped at the sound, instinctively recognizing chastisement and still young enough to react to it. He trilled, chuckling to himself as they settled back and turned their attentions elsewhere. It took many years and a much higher rise in rank for a yautja to lose that guilty pup conscience, to stop reacting to rebuke.

* * *

><p>Hours later, and still waiting patiently for Anya to remember he was there and honor him with her presence, L'tor had finished the Jägermeister and was idly tapping one of his claws against the glass bottle. He wasn't upset or agitated; he'd since made his peace with allowing Anya, as the courted female, to call the shots and define her terms for this courtship. He would prove his patience to her, his intention to proceed with the courtship and his confidence and ability to persist despite apparent rebuff.<p>

He'd had to remind himself that this was courtship, and that her seeming disrespect was actually a female's right. His initial reactions had been based on his years of achieving status, of dealing with males of his kind and living on his own; now he was sliding into a more instinctive place. It had been many years since he'd been challenged, since he'd been forced to tolerate disrespect. She had taught him a hard lesson and he'd very nearly failed in this pursuit, had come so very close to failing to understand the rules of the game. It had only been his sense of honor that had kept him in his seat long enough to come to the realization that he wasn't dealing with an irritatingly recalcitrant pup or a stupid animal. No, Anya wasn't stupid, and it pleased him to realize that. She was a mature adult female and she had the right to test him.

There had been another close moment where he'd almost left his seat before finally settling into the bemused patience he was experiencing now. The singing had continued but Anya was no longer the dominant player; she was taking a supporting role to allow others to command the stage, tempering her voice to sing behind them. There were a few females and two males, rollicking songs that the bar celebrated and joined with, every ooman laughing and having a good time. In between there was bantering and teasing, predominantly male to female with Anya, predictably, in the middle of it. When she finally gave in and took center stage again with four females backing her, it was to sing a song so bawdy, so blatantly sexual and flirtatious it was everything L'tor could do to keep his seat. She moved off the stage, swaying seductively, singing as she touched and teased, pressing herself close and using her whole body in a way that was clearly inviting to the point it was almost demanding. The atmosphere became raucous and she smiled her small, self-satisfied smile as she encouraged and played it expertly, picking and choosing males to single out and tease, shoving others aside to the delight of her audience. The song gave the impression that she was the dominant and desired female, that she had her choice of male partners from the entire room. No other female challenged her, not even the ones whose partners she singled out for attention. If anything, they were smiling and amused, some egging her on.

When it was finally done the bar exploded in cheers and Anya grinned, maintaining her defiant obliviousness to L'tor as he breathed hard, sharp teeth grinding together, tusks slightly flared as he glared at her. She'd pointedly not come near the large yautja tables, ignoring the most dominant males in the bar as she performed her sexually inviting tease. L'tor had started taking her insult personally again; by his figuring the only one who should by rights have received her attention during that song was him. He was oldest, wisest, strongest. He was the largest, the most successful, the highest ranked. There wasn't a single area where he would be considered inferior to any other male in the place and yet she hadn't singled him out for flirtation or attention. It momentarily made him want to go on a destructive rampage, to stand and challenge all other males, taking them on jehdin jehdin – one on one – or en-masse to prove to her that no male was more preferable, more worthy than him.

Instead, he gradually cooled his temper and kept his seat, determined not to allow her to provoke his reaction. Let her tease and flirt. He would maintain his position as dominant male and observe, learning all facets of her personality, allowing her to display her desirableness to entice him and pique his interest. So she was sexual? Good. It was a much more attractive trait than the frigidness she'd displayed to him earlier. It was a fact that would make her more coveted by others and therefore make them envious of the male who successfully claimed her.

L'tor had entered a state of zen, similar to the focus and peace of mind he experienced when he hunted or trained. The target of his attention remained in his sight under heavy observation and he was content to watch and learn, biding his time until the next opportunity to confront her arose. When it came he was ready, sitting comfortably in his seat and toying with the empty liquor bottle as Anya approached his table on her own. The bar had quieted down considerably as the hour had gotten later and many of the oomans packed into it had long since left. The youngBloods at the next table had moved on also, leaving L'tor as the sole yautja at the corner tables.

"You're still here?" Anya greeted him, and smiled.

Clever little liar. She could pretend she was surprised to see him though they both knew that she'd been well aware of him all night. He rumbled acknowledgement and dipped his chin. She smelled, as he drew in a quiet breath, of sweat and heat, a not unpleasant scent to him. It was the smell of exertion and effort and strain, of physical activity and life. It also told him that the alcohol had long since burned out of her system and she was no longer in danger of becoming intoxicated enough to come into trouble.

"I'm here for the gun," she informed him, motioning at the weapon still lying on the table beside him. He kept his attention on her face, not looking at it. "Can I take it or am I just asking to see my own blood?"

One of his upper tusks lifted in a smirk. Not so stupid, he reminded himself. And not so disrespectful. He shifted his feet on the floor and rose to stand, towering over her and reminding her that he was a force to be reckoned with. She took a step back and stared up at his eyes, clearly unsure. He held her attention and her gaze for a moment, then looked away to lean over and retrieve the gun, handing it to her. She took it cautiously, still staring at his eyes. Trying to read him, trying to learn his expressions and understand his intentions. It pleased him.

"Thanks," she said quietly, then took another step back and retreated, heading out the back door to the patio. She was followed by the male who'd initially brought the gun into the bar. Uncomfortable with this development, Anya alone with a male and Anya with a weapon, L'tor retrieved his mask from its clip on his belt and swiftly affixed it to his face, taking a deep breath of the filtered and more highly refined air it provided him and suddenly feeling considerably more alert. He phased through the mask's alternate vision modes quickly, running a quick diagnostic as a matter of habit, using his mandibles and tusks to depress pressure switches along its inner lining. Satisfied, he headed to the door that would take him to wherever Anya had gone.

She was standing on the back patio under the bright lights, examining the weapon with clinical expertise. She didn't look up when L'tor came through the door but the male with her did, and stepped further away as L'tor approached to watch.

"How much you want for it?" Anya asked, continuing their conversation as if the appearance of the predator didn't phase her.

"Twelve hundred," TJ said promptly.

She snorted and stopped fiddling with the selector to look at him with a smirk. "Blow it out your ass."

"Bitch, the scope alone is worth three hundred!" TJ protested.

"Good one," Anya said idly as L'tor growled threateningly and flared his dreadlocks, clearly recognizing the name TJ had called her and taking offense. She was sighting in on said scope now, cradling the rifle in her arms and pressing the stock to her cheek. Personally the name didn't bother her, since TJ used it with casual regularity during every conversation with anyone, male or female.

"Jesus Aich Christ," TJ muttered uneasily.

"Got a mag?" she asked.

"In the car."

"Go get it," she dared, curious to see what L'tor's reaction would be to her holding a loaded gun, much less test-firing it. "Bitch," she added as TJ hesitated. Now he snorted at her, then headed back inside.

Aware that she was now alone with seven foot tall killer alien that weighed somewhere in the neighborhood of three to four hundred pounds, Anya took a breath to steady her nerves. "TJ's an asshole but he's okay," she said quietly. "Gun dealer. I mentioned I wanted one of these so he brought it here hoping to sell it to me. Wanted it for targets, not yautja," she clarified.

The dark shape near her shifted closer, pleased to be acknowledged and addressed. "He touches it, he dies," he growled. Direct and simple.

"He's getting me ammo. Bullets. If me shooting a gun in your vicinity bothers you, you should leave."

The predator trilled, sounding amused to her. She looked at him. "Point at me, you hurt."

"Fair enough," she breathed, then she snorted as she thought about it, raising her face to meet his eyes through the slits in his mask. "He touches it and you kill him, I load it and point it at you and I only get hurt?" she asked.

"Yes."

She smiled. "On my worst day and his best I'm a better shot than TJ," she knew, admitting it freely.

The yautja shrugged. "Want to see," he told her, honestly curious. He knew that oomans had females in their military and he knew that like Anya, some females hunted. He hadn't personally encountered an armed female, though, and something about seeing this one handling a weapon competently intrigued and excited him. He was willing to take the chance that she understood him better than this strange male did, and that she could be trusted.

"Brought two mags," TJ said loudly, reappearing on the patio. "Thirty rounds apiece. More than that you'll have to pay for."

"Cheap sonuvabitch," Anya said good naturedly.

"I'm not a charity," he announced.

"You should be paying me to take this gun," Anya told him, taking a magazine and slapping it into the gun's breech. "He told me he'd kill you if you as much as touched it again."

TJ looked horrified and glanced at the yautja. "What the hell?" he demanded. "You're the better shot than me!"

"Nice. Throw me under the bus why don't you?" Anya said, shooting him a look. She went to the outer edge of the patio and flipped a few switches. Since Benny's bar was on the outskirts of nowhere there was a shooting range off the back of his outdoor eating area. Flipping the switches activated the warning lights, turned on the floods and produced an audible alarm. Several deer browsing in the field behind the patio lifted their heads at the lights, then scattered at the sound of the horn. "Damn. There goes dinner," Anya muttered.

"Here," TJ offered, holding out plugs. "Bitch is loud."

Anya took them and stuffed her ears, then spent another moment familiarizing herself with the gun and giving any idiot who might be hiking in the dark behind Benny's the chance to clear out before she started shooting. L'tor's attentive presence was like a weight pressing behind her neck, pushing her down. She looked up at him and grinned, then thumbed over her back. "Might want to get on my other side. Casings eject on the right and they come out pretty fucking hot," she warned him. He hesitated and she got the idea that he had no idea what she was talking about, but he moved to her other side.

She pulled the horn again for good measure, aware when people still in the bar started piling out onto the patio to see her shoot. She lifted the gun, settled it comfortably, thumbed the safety off, then found the trigger by touch and sighted through the scope on the furthest target. She pulled the trigger once, twice, three times, feeling the slight-but-there kick of the gun with each loud snap as it fired. Resighting on a closer target she fired again, counting off to three, then she pulled and held, letting the gun auto-fire three rounds loudly.

Finding her rhythm she sighted on the closest target and fired methodically, listening to the echo of each shot snap off the building behind her and ricochet back from the trees. Fucking tremendous. She moved her attention from target to target, aware that the muzzle was smoking as she counted to thirty in rapid succession. She raised the muzzle, ejected the spent mag into her hand and passed it to TJ.

"That was the shit," she said, exhilarated. God, she loved to shoot things. The louder the gun, the better. The M4 had surprisingly little kickback for so much power, just enough that full auto lifted the muzzle a bit with every shot. It was fun, though. She ejected the spent cartridges in the chamber onto the paving stones then held out her hand for the other mag, wiggling her fingers in silent demand. TJ made a face but slapped the magazine into her hand.

"Scope's unnecessary," she said conversationally as she slammed it into the gun, aware that the yautja behind her was close enough for her to feel his heat. He wasn't fucking around, and she suspected that if she made a wrong move with the gun he'd be all over her, no shit. Something about actually seeing her go through with it and shooting had made him close in on her and she suspected, though she didn't allow herself to really think about it, that he was agitated.

"Whaddya mean, unnecessary? Thought you liked target shooting?" TJ said.

"I do. I'm telling you I'm not interested in the scope on this thing." She clicked the safety off and looked at him. He was looking behind and slightly above her. It confirmed her suspicion that the predator was well into her personal space, enough to make others nervous. "If I can't hit a target with this thing then I should give up shooting. The standard sight's fine."

"So nine beans then," he said to the space above her head, negotiating with her. She fiddled with the extendable stock for a moment, adjusting it.

"Hey, let me try," Mickey said, stepping out of the crowd.

"You want to get bitch-slapped?" TJ asked, wheeling around on him. Mickey looked affronted.

"By who? You?" he scoffed.

"By the big guy behind me," Anya interjected, holding the gun with her finger outside the trigger guard. "Let's just everyone back away from the gun and relax, okay? Don't crowd him and get him anymore pissy than I suspect he already is."

There was a low rumble behind her and she flinched as a huge hand brushed against her bare lower back, hot in the cool evening air. He was close, then. The sensation of heat against her back hadn't been imagined. Even TJ took two steps back in response to her advice, further isolating her on the patio, leaving her alone holding a loaded gun with a hyper-alert, fully armored, fully armed and very experienced yautja warrior and hunter breathing down the back of her neck.

Her fear crested to the brink of panic then dissipated with an effervescent tingle of anger in its wake. Like the being behind her, she did not appreciate feeling cornered or threatened. There was some muttering as people trickled inside, seeing the look that had come into her eyes, the hard stare she leveled on them wordlessly. Anya had a legendary temper. It was rarely seen since she tended to be relentlessly good-natured. Those that knew her well enough, her good friends, had long since learned that the appearance of her temper was heralded by a feeling of fear, trauma and/or helplessness. They were the ones who stayed behind on the patio with her, watching closely: Mickey, Helen, Carter and Kiki.

"Annie," Helen said now, staring hard at her, giving her The Look.

"I'm alright," Anya said flatly, meeting her eyes. She knew what The Look was for, and she knew what Helen was thinking. It wasn't that they were afraid she was going to turn around and start shooting; it was the memory of what happened after her sister had died and Anya had spiraled into depression. She'd come to the end of her rope and wanted to be done with it, done with everything, with life in general. There were still these few that, even years later, kept a close eye on her in fear that something would come along that would set her off or provide her with that out. What was standing behind her had the potential to do both.

"I'm _alright_," Anya said again, her voice harder. "I'm not contemplating suicide by yautja, if that's what everyone's worrying about." There was a quiet release of breath and she scowled as it turned out that _was_ what they were thinking. "If ya'll will excuse me, I need to shoot something," she said woodenly, then turned toward the clearing and lifted the gun. The gun popped in her arms, cracking like a whip each time she pulled the trigger, ejecting cartridges steadily as she took aim at a single target and methodically pumped bullets one after the other into it. In the startling silence that followed there was the soft tinkle of spent cartridges rolling on the paving stones and a collective holding of breath. "It's nice," Anya said, clearing the breech with another musical tinkle of cartridges hitting the pavers, ejecting the spent magazine and thumbing the safety, "but I'm not paying nine hundred for it." She heaved the gun at TJ, forgetting about the yautja's prohibition against him touching it, slapped the emptied mag onto a nearby table, and stormed for the door. Without stopping she crossed the bar and slammed out the front door, moving across the parking lot like a force of nature to her car, a Chevy Camaro. She unlocked it, slid in, started it and gave it a satisfying rev before peeling out of the parking lot and tearing off into the night.

To her credit, TJ's fate had occurred to her an hour later and when she called his cellphone she was relieved when he answered. The predator, as it turned out, was more interested in where she'd run off to than in the fact that TJ now had the gun in his possession. He had given TJ a contemptuous snort before striding off the patio and into the darkness. And when she'd come home hours later there was evidence that she'd had a visitor: the plywood covering the hole where she used to have a skylight had been removed. A thorough investigation of her house, however, turned up no sign of a seven foot walking nightmare so he must have searched for her and left.

* * *

><p><strong>Dear Anya,<strong>

**Please try to understand the position you're putting me in here. You may or may not be aware that I am responsible for reporting on the success or failure of courting relationships in your area. In my daily calls to your local police department I am heartened to hear that your house is still standing; may I be so bold as to say that I am impressed with your yautja's fortitude?**

**The police tell me that they made two successful welfare checks with you, and were both times told to 'Fuck off'. I assume this to mean that you have still not accepted the honor of the position you have found yourself in. My superiors are adamant that I advise you to try and tone down your temper with this yautja, as I have informed them that he is clearly of unusually high rank. You could, instead, impress upon him the finer qualities of our species to encourage him to side with those of his kind that would prefer to preserve us, instead of attempting to convince him that we have no redeeming qualities. Think about it. Call me.**

**Sincerely, Ivy**

* * *

><p><strong>Dear Ivy:<strong>

**Fuck off.**

**Sincerely, Anya**

* * *

><p>She ran into him again two nights later, and again at Benny's bar. This time she'd participated in an early evening softball game, and after they'd all gone for a beer. She was still dressed in filthy clothes, sitting on the patio and still arguing whether or not her slide into home plate should have resulted in her being called out, when L'tor stepped out through the door from inside. When he spotted her he went still, the only movement his hands closing into fists as everyone shut up and stared.<p>

"See? Even he agrees it was a bullshit call," she said in the silence that followed, making Kiki giggle nervously.

He didn't make a sound and Anya had the sensation of overwhelming disapproval that soured the beer in her stomach and made her instantly uneasy. She was being difficult and she knew it. Apparently so did the yautja. After realizing he'd been in her house looking for her she'd packed her bags and took herself outbacking for the weekend, retrieving Stretch from the stables and packing him for a camping trip. It had had the desired effect of refreshing her and putting her mind at ease. And now here she was, right back where she'd left off, goddamnit.

L'tor _was_ angry. He'd searched for her, kept an eye on her house, and completely lost track of her for almost two full days. There were several ways of dealing with a recalcitrant female but he was still mentally resisting the idea that this courtship would go anywhere, so why bother going to extremes?

So she wanted to be a challenge. Let her. Maybe it would have the desired effect of of creating enough disinterest for him that he would abandon this courtship and move on. And now here she was, surrounding herself once again with others to create an atmosphere of unapproachability to try and deter him. He rumbled and advanced, wading through the rest to place himself in front of her and stare down at her.

_Whoops_, Anya thought, sitting in her chair and looking up at him. If she looked straight ahead she would be hypnotized by an enormous armored codpiece that didn't bear contemplation. Annoyed by that fact, she defiantly rose to her feet in front of him and glared up at his expressionless mask that was tilted down to her. She supposed that the scene looked just plain ridiculous to everyone watching, her standing up to him, looking like a ten year old defying an adult.

L'tor surprised her by reaching up and pulling off her baseball cap by its bill, causing all the hair she had gathered beneath it to spill out and spiral messily around her head.

"I'm out," Mickey announced suddenly, abruptly standing from his chair and heading for the door. For a millisecond he'd been terrified that Anya was in huge trouble, but when the yautja merely pulled off her cap he felt a sudden need to give them privacy. The move had been somehow gentle and affectionate. He was followed in a mass exodus by everyone else until Anya was left standing there alone.

"An'eya," L'tor rumbled quietly, still holding her cap. "No hiding."

"Hiding?" she echoed dumbly, then steeled her expression. "I wasn't hiding. I went on a trip." She wasn't _hiding_, she was _avoiding_. Big difference, she assured herself.

"No trip," he said, sounding patient though she sensed he was pretty frigging angry with her. Ivy had left five voicemail messages since their last email exchange and she hadn't returned one since they all were variants on the same theme: to strongly advise again that she pack up her shit and take a wilderness vacation to be more accessible to the being now standing in front of her. It was, Ivy insisted, the best way to protect others, especially any friends that might feel compelled to get in the middle to try and protect her. No chance of that, the bastards. They'd all bailed on her, she couldn't help but notice.

"You're crowding me," she said. He cocked his head. "I don't like feeling threatened," she tried. Head still cocked, he made a rapid ticking sound as he considered. "See this?" she asked, motioning in the small space between them. "You're _looming_."

He'd gotten everything up until the last word, which eluded him. When he translated and considered what she was saying, though, it all added up to another attempt to reject his presence. Still too _busy_ for him. Still not giving him the respect he deserved. He'd thought she would after she'd approached him the other day but she'd proven unpredictable. _Challenging_.

Time for drastic measures, then. He gently set the cap back on her head then had a good look around before turning away from her and striding off. She had always responded favorably when he backed away from her and he had no reason to believe this time would be any different. He would give her time to settle down and return for her later.

* * *

><p><strong>Dear Anya,<strong>

**I understand that you are upset, and I understand your position. If I could change places with you and let you do this shitty job while I enjoy the apparently unshakable interest and attention of a high-level yautja, I would. Believe me. Funny thing, though. Usually I find myself inundated with calls all hours of the day and night, asking for advice and guidance over what often seems like the most mundane of issues. The one girl I would expect to hear from will not only not call me for anything, she also won't pick up the phone when I call, return my messages, or answer most of my emails...and when she finally does, its to tell me to 'fuck off'. I have to assume there's been further contact between you and this yautja, and yet the police assure me that your house remains intact. Please please please do not attempt to tell him to fuck off.**

**Call me. Please.**

**Sincerely, Ivy**

* * *

><p><strong>Dear Ivy,<strong>

**Alright already, I get it. You wanna have hot yautja sex? Come by Benny's Tavern, it's usually where he's hanging around, looking for me. Show him your boobs and I'm betting he'll be on you like white on rice.**

**Meanwhile, I'll tell you what I've been trying to explain to him: I'm busy, okay? I don't have time for his horseshit or for sitting on the phone with you all day and answering your hundred messages, either.**

**Anya**

* * *

><p>That email was followed shortly by a breathless voicemail message from Ivy, since Anya didn't deign to pick up the phone and speak to her. "Please, Anya, for the love of god, please tell me you didn't really tell him you're too busy for his horseshit?"<p>

She waited a bit before sending her response via email:

**Ivy,**

**I did, actually, only I didn't put it exactly like that. And you know what? He's backed off me. I think I'm in the clear now.**

**Anya**

She went to bed for the first time in a long time with a smile on her face. L'tor had just walked off from the bar's patio, seeming to finally get the hint. She anticipated that the skulls on either side of her front door would be gone shortly and she could go back to her regularly scheduled life instead of walking around feeling doomed. The cops would stop watching her, her neighbors would stop slamming doors every time she went to or from her car, and reporters would stop calling her with ridiculously probing questions.

Her good night's sleep came to an abrupt ending when she woke up in a plush fur-lined bed that had a distinctly familiar hops-and-heat smell to it and was adorned by a massive headboard made entirely of bones. She snapped upright then grabbed her head and groaned as it spun threateningly, desperately trying to remember what she'd had to drink last night and why the hell it had left a taste like cherry cough syrup in her mouth.

It took a minute for her brain to settle and remind her that she'd long since given up drinking herself blind and waking up in strange men's beds. Also, it informed her matter-of-factly, there wasn't enough alcohol in the world to convince her that sleeping in this particular bed was a good idea. Slowly, she lifted her head and glanced around, blinking rapidly at the low orangey lighting emanating from odd electronics, flashing hash lines that constantly changed. She stared long enough to recognize a certain symmetry to the changing figures, like they indicated letters or numbers represented as glyphs.

The air was warm and a bit humid, the moisture created by the swirling mist on the floor, and she swung her legs out of the bed and went to stand. The unseen floor was hard and warm beneath her feet, and as she stood and paused to get her bearings she became aware of a low throbbing that came from all around her, most noticeably through the floor. It was vaguely machine-like, and while she listened and tried to think this thing through, her eyes wandered.

The ceiling was domed over the bed and softly backlit with a sort of slow-flickering mixture from yellow to orange to red, adding the illusion of warmth to a room that appeared to be made of a dark light-absorbing metal. There were furniture-like structures against most of the walls but it was a sparse and utilitarian place. The bed was actually a surprise in its extravagance; otherwise the room was as no-nonsense as the yautja who resided in it but currently wasn't here.

_And thank god for that_, Anya thought, then straightened her spine and moved away from the bed. She had a suspicion about where she might be but she was steeling herself pending an exploration for further evidence. Freaking out would be easy but it wouldn't get her anywhere. Then again, she thought, freaking out might successfully convince him to take her back to her bedroom where she belonged.

She jumped back in fright when a portion of the wall she was passing slid silently open, revealing a slightly better-lit corridor beyond it. She leaned out cautiously and glanced in both directions, then stepped out of the bedroom and into the hallway beyond.

* * *

><p>He crossed his arms and quietly eased his shoulder against the curved wall, leaning his weight against it and relaxing the leg on that side as he watched her. Her timid steps were becoming more confident and she remained oblivious to his presence as she advanced across the meeting room, probably blinded by the glow of her home planet that filled the view. Though she was fascinated he was pleased by her alertness; her head was constantly moving, taking in the invisible barrier between inside and outside, the table and seating, the surrounding stars and orbiting satellites, the ships of other yautja visiting her planet. She wasn't myopically fixing her attention on the glowing curve of her planet to the exclusion of all else.<p>

This was going well, he mused, almost ruefully. This excursion was intended to test her, to stress her. He wanted to see how she reacted and how it affected her behavior after personally witnessing the conduct of other ooman females in yautja common places where he'd seen them. He did not have the patience to deal with hysterics and panic, and if this female proved flighty he would have reason to end his courtship.

But once again she surprised him. There was fear but also fascination, curiosity, interest. The fear he understood and accepted, on a certain level. His kind did not fear; they saw everything as a challenge or an opportunity. Oomans, he knew, tended to be fearful of new things, loud noises, bright lights, sudden movement..._everything_. It was this trait in their females that ideally caused them to bond to the yautja who had taken them as mates. For the youngBloods, a few carefully choreographed displays of temper and a planned out scenario of danger that ended up with the female seeing the males 'save' them was usually enough to seal the deal. They were too eager for the breeding and for the elevation in status a pairbond offered. In L'tor's opinion, too short-sighted.

L'tor sighed quietly, thinking now of the youngBloods that seemed to spend most of their time in that ooman bar. Shameful. After surviving his chiva and earning his Blooding mark, he had whole-heartedly thrown himself into practicing what he'd been taught, focusing on making a name for himself. Hunting carefully and selectively to collect the finest skulls for his trophy display, watching the older warriors just as carefully to select which one he would challenge next. Now, it seemed the youngBloods descended to the ooman planet immediately after a successful chiva and started eyeing up the females. He was worried for the future of their race, for the quality of the pups that would be produced from these unions. He believed that bearers should have some backbone, some strength and fight. Strong, healthy pups came from strong, healthy parents, not just a male three times larger and many times stronger than the female who submitted to him. She should be fierce in her protection and nurturing of the pups her male put to her, taking pride in her ability to produce them and care for them.

This one in his meeting room had those qualities, he mused, but she needed taming. She was too feral, displaying the trademark defiance of an unseasoned female that was too independent, who submitted to no one. For right now it was acceptable but he was aware he needed to put her to the test there, too. She was possibly looking forward in her future to a life of the unfamiliar and oftentimes dangerous, and therefore she needed to learn to look to him, to defer to him, to read his cues and obey them. And, most of all, she needed to learn to _trust_ him.

And that, too, was what this excursion was for. L'tor was too mature to create some ploy to put her in danger so he could rescue her and prove he was capable of protecting her. Instead, he was going to offer her the real possibility of danger, to put her in a real-life situation and see what her reaction would be. He would let no harm come to her, of course, but he was interested in showing her what life with him would be like. He didn't expect she would come running to him at the first sign of threat, but he did expect it would be a behavior she would learn quickly. It wasn't something that would be possible to teach her on her own world filled with the familiar and with distractions that took her focus off him. It would, he thought, be an interesting adventure.

She turned suddenly from the view and looked right at him. He hadn't moved nor made a sound, still leaning casually against the wall and observing her.

"What the _hell_?" she demanded, her tone both parts horrified and angry.

_Ah_, he thought, _reaction time_. The question she'd asked hadn't been a complete one but he was familiar enough with it from her by now. It was an ambiguous query that irked him; he was aware of the ooman 'hell' as a bad place that bad oomans went when they died. Therefore, the question made absolutely no sense whatsoever to him.

"Not hell," he rumbled. He knew she was asking for explanation but since she didn't ask the proper question in the proper tone of voice he wasn't going to give her the response she was obviously looking for.

Frustrated, she shook her head, tossing her mane of golden spirals. Holding up the back of her left hand to him she asked pointed at it and asked, "Do you see a ring on this finger? 'Cuz I don't. So what am I doing here already?"

He cocked his head. A ring? She was suddenly demanding jewelry because he'd brought her to his ship? He remained still and stared passively at her, though his hands had clenched into fists as his temper flared with her out-of-the-gate confrontational attitude.

"Yeah, okay," Anya said, deflating, then held out her hands, palms-up. "What am I doing here?" she asked, lowering her tone.

_Better_, he thought. "My ship," he said simply, adjusting his posture.

"Figured that much."

"Trip."

She deflated some more, then turned to look back out the window. "Where?" she asked.

He rumbled, trying to decide if she was deliberately disrespecting him by keeping her back to him. She was hard to read and he was reminding himself to give her as much leeway as he could. She wasn't yautja, she wasn't male, and she wasn't a warrior. Her behavior was mystifying and he had to school himself constantly to keep these things in mind and not misinterpret her actions.

"Show you," he said, then quietly stepped into the room and crossed to the window, closer to her. She turned and moved away at his approach and he noticed.

The table was large enough for a complement of eight yautja, one at either end and three on either side. It was a meeting room, one he hardly used since the ship was his alone. Choosing a chair across from her, he flipped up a panel in the right arm and keyed a button. The view of the planet they were orbiting faded as the window went opaque and Anya jerked, staring. The small control panel in the arm of the chair was linked to his ship's computer, and with a press of a few keys he brought up a digital map of their destination.

He moved to the window that doubled as a screen and pointed to a small planet up high in the left corner. "There." He tapped it with a claw and turned to look at Anya. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was open. An expression, he assumed, of shock.

"Whoah..." she breathed, staring at the planet he'd indicated, then looking at the rest of the complex map. "_Wow_." She actually moved closer then, her eyes roving the map avidly. "How long to get there from here?" she wanted to know.

L'tor grunted. Time was always a touchy subject when it came to oomans. Yautja had abandoned the obsession with time long ago, except in the much broader terms of time and space and distance, necessary for intergalactic travel. For any planet-dwelling being, time was always measured by the revolutions of that particular planet: the rise and fall of a star, the change of season, the light and the dark. None of these things had meaning to a creature not of their planet.

Technically, the place he was taking her to wasn't reachable by her kind. At least, not yet. They were still in the early stages of galactic exploration and while they might have successfully sent their kind to the moon that orbited their planet they were countless generations away from the level of comfort the yautja had with living and traveling in deep space. To his knowledge, though they were studying what they called _black holes_ they still had no understanding or ability to use the rifts to travel more efficiently. They were still using direct routes in their exploration, a method that required vast amounts of time and fuel.

_So how to relate a length of time to get to our destination_? he wondered. He clicked thoughtfully, then shrugged. "Day." She didn't know he was making it up, and she wouldn't know.

"A _day_?" she echoed, looking at him. Wrong answer. Clearly she was skeptical. He just stared back at her, watching her mull it over and go back to studying the star chart displayed on the window. "I'm calling bullshit on that one, my friend," she said quietly, pensively.

It took a moment for her words to sink in, for L'tor to translate them in his mind individually then rearrange them in an order that made better sense to him. She was certainly taxing his limited ability to speak her language. 'Shit', he knew, always quick to pick out swear words in an effort to understand if he was being insulted. _C'jit_, in his tongue. 'Bullshit' he'd heard before, and it implied that he was lying to her. Then there was the strange 'my friend' tacked onto the end of it, telling him, oddly enough, that while she was accusing him of lying she was also calling him a friend. All the other words were filler, typical unnecessary human babble that he had to wade through to get her point. In his opinion, all she'd needed to say was 'Bullshit, friend' instead of all the rest.

He growled. Who could have guessed that he'd be struggling to understand the speech of a species he used to hunt? It irritated him to no end. The Elders should demand that the oomans learn yautja, a far less word-intensive language. And while they were at it, they should learn proper etiquette and behavior when in the presence of a yautja, most especially if said yautja was a Master-level warrior. L'tor was never one for patience and he was finding that spending so much of his time in the company of oomans was onerous and tiring. He knew what the Elders would tell him if he dared to as much as suggest such things, though. That as the higher life form it was his responsibility to temper his actions and reactions to suit their needs because it was beyond their ability to understand and learn to suit his. _Observe and behave_, as his old Master used to say.

While L'tor was thinking all of this, Anya stared at the map in front of her and tried like hell to make sense of it. There were strange words and symbols on it, wavy lines, notations, indecipherable marks and a multitude of small circles that she assumed indicated planets. If one of them was her planet, she couldn't tell. It left her with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her..._captor_, as she was starting to think of him, wasn't forthcoming with explanations or reassurances and she'd be willing to bet that if she pointed to any circle on the map and asked him 'How far?' the answer would always be 'Day'.

To make matters worse, she didn't recall _discussing_ this trip. She could only recall falling asleep in her own bed and waking up in a different bed. Now she was standing in front of a strange star map wearing nothing but her sleep shorts and the tiny little spaghetti-strap top she'd worn to bed. She hadn't thought it would be possible to feel anymore vulnerable and weak in this yautja's presence. She'd been wrong.

When he growled, Anya looked from the map to him, then shifted to face him and take him in, just realizing now that, guess what? He was pretty much naked, too. Not to say that yautja were big dressers. But his usual wardrobe of armor was missing and he was currently wearing nothing but a loincloth. Even the bracers that usually covered his forearms were gone, and her eyes took a slow walk from head to toe. It was a long journey since there was a lot of him to take in, and sometime during it he shifted his stance and crossed his arms with a low rumble that interrupted her study and sent her attention scrambling to his face to try and judge his expression.

She nibbled the inside of her lip. Wasn't much 'face' to assess, though his head was huge and imposing. What she was left with was trying to interpret his expressions based on the movements of his mandibles, since that seemed to be the most mobile part of his face. He was looking pretty closed-off to her right now, staring hard at her with fierce but intelligent amber eyes. She wondered, oddly enough, if they would shine in low light like the eyes of night-adapted animals.

The loss of his armor toned down his _imposingness_, somewhat. The armor had the effect of maximizing certain facets of his physique while apparently protecting areas of weakness. It broadened already broad shoulders, gave him Popeye forearms and squat, thick looking thighs. It also heightened his, um, _bulge_. Which was currently draped by the overhang on the front of his loincloth, thank god. There was a large piece of armor that rode his back and gave him a humped appearance; now that it was gone she saw he had ramrod straight posture. He was still muscular but sleeker now, better proportioned and less bulky-looking.

All that skin was still intimidating, though. Clearly he was well-built and powerful and the addition of the armor had only accentuated that fact. Since he wasn't objecting to her scrutiny she found her eyes wandering again, taking in his coloration and patterning, the almost reptilian look to his skin. Nothing about him looked soft or vulnerable, and when she finally settled her attention back on his face it was with a worm of fear wiggling in her guts. She was alone and helpless here, completely at his mercy. She should have called goddamn Ivy back. Maybe she could have warned her that something like this was a possibility. Then again, this was Ivy's wet dream right now. Crazy bitch.

"So...what now?" Anya asked meekly.

_That,_ L'tor thought, _was an excellent question_. He'd sedated her in order to get her here without conflict and he was honestly surprised at how quickly she'd shaken the tranquilizer off. By his calculations she should have remained asleep for twice as long as she had.

He moved back to the chair where he'd used the command module to bring up the star map and shut the viewer down, then sent a coded command to the computer to proceed on the route he'd already programmed. Anya had gone back to staring out the window when the northern hemisphere of her planet reappeared on the other side of it, bright and blue against the backdrop of space. There was a faint vibration that passed through the ship as the thrusters activated but it disappeared quickly. The only awareness Anya had of movement was watching the view out the window change as the ship rolled away and began to accelerate.

"Explore," he told her, then realized she wasn't paying any attention to him anymore. Her attention was fixed out the window and she was standing stiffly, rooted to the floor.

L'tor used the opportunity to watch her. Since his vision was based more on tracking movement and the body heat produced by warm-blooded animals he saw much more than the color of her skin or the clothes she was wearing. He was able to key in quickly to changes in her physiology, to physical and chemical changes that took place in reaction to stimuli. His sense of smell was far superior to that of any human. She was, he realized, afraid. When she finally turned her head to look at him he lifted his chin slightly. Finally, she was starting to take him seriously. He'd had to resort to extreme measures to get to this point but it was the only way he could think of to remove her distractions and force her to focus.

"An'eya," he rumbled, pleased to finally find himself the focal point of all her attention. "You safe here are."

She blinked, then frowned. "You are safe here," she corrected him. "And thanks for that. Are we...is there anyone else here?"

Speaking her language wasn't his greatest talent. By far. Though anger at being corrected flashed through him he shrugged it off gracefully and accepted the correction. Oomans spoke backwards, it seemed. He wasn't sure why she should think there might be others on his ship; that would be all he needed, more individuals to interfere in his attempts to court this female. _Hko_, he thought, but aloud he said, "No."

She seemed to mull this over for a moment while he tried to read her expression to find out if the information pleased or disappointed her. It was, admittedly, hard to tell. She drew in a deep, slow breath and let it ease out of her, tasting the different flavor of the air and getting a buzz from such a deep draught of it.

"Good, An'eya," he rumbled, seeing her make a concerted effort to calm herself and relax.


	6. Chapter 6

I needed a break, and I decided to give everyone a chance to catch up on the last two huge chapters while I gave myself a breather and did some much-needed editing. For those of you who take the time to do so, thank you **so much** for the reviews; they inspire me, make me think, make me laugh, and make me feel good! You are in a class by yourselves and I want to give all who have left a review my personal thank you. XOXO! And for those that have made this story a favorite, thank you so much! I am personally TERRIBLE at leaving reviews; now that I've posted a story I will be more diligent in reviewing the stories I read and follow.

Um, I don't know the etiquette so I'll just say it straight out: if you are not supposed to be or comfortable with reading MATURE-rated stories with adult language and contents in this particular subject and genre, please back off now. If the language in the earlier chapters and the rating and description weren't enough to warn you...well, then don't blame me. This will go there, and any shattered innocent sensibilities are not my responsibility. I am giving you fair warning well in advance...

Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Predator or make any money off it. Please don't sue.

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><p>There was a sound, a dry crackle that came from above as she balanced precariously on the tiny ledge and looked down. The vine in her hands shifted a bit lower and her eyes popped wide as she realized it was giving way and breaking.<p>

"Oh _crap_," she said quietly, and looked up in time to see it rip loose from the rocky face of the cliff as it went slack in her hands. Her reaction was to hold on tighter and press herself against the side of the cliff, staring in disbelief. Then in more disbelief as the vine suddenly arrested, going taut again in her hands. It hung up somehow in mid-air; she could clearly see that with her own two eyes. As she watched it started rising and she held on, wincing at the rain of small pebbles dislodged above it.

"An'eya." The voice was deep and gruff; there was a shimmer of movement and an faint electronic chirp before L'tor materialized above her, the end of the vine in his big hand.

"Oops," she said in a tiny voice. He was crouched perching on the edge of the cliff ten feet above her, and he grunted then rose to his full height and started hauling the vine up, hand over hand. She planted her feet in the cliff face and held on tight, walking her way up the vertical surface as he pulled. When she reached him he held out one massive hand, holding her weight on the vine with the other. She hesitated, then reached up and took it, curling her fingers around his thumb and allowing him to draw her up the rest of the way. It didn't pass her notice how easily he'd done it.

He set her easily on her feet and she was quick to move away from the cliff's edge, looking back down it and brushing her hands off as she did. "You just _had_ to piss that thing off, didn't you?" she demanded as he tossed the vine over the edge and turned to face her. "Next time make sure they're pointing in any direction other than mine before you start fucking with them, okay?"

He took in her words and her tone, then trilled in amusement. "_Rjet_," he informed her. "Good tasting."

"Yeah, well Reggie over there wanted to find out if I was good tasting, too," she grumbled. When he trilled again she indignantly announced, "It's _not_ funny!"

It had been, actually, at least until the heart-stopping second he saw her go off the cliff that neither of them had known was there. She'd been quick and strong and agile, turning back the second the ground fell out from under her, grabbing and catching the root. The vegetation it had once been attached to was long dead, though, and as it arrested her weight it ripped free of the cliff face. He'd been fortunate to have masterfully quick reflexes that allowed him to catch it in time; he suspected she would have dropped maybe ten more feet before it might have arrested again at another anchor point, and she would have been amply capable of continuing to hang onto the vine when it did. Out of his immediate reach, though. Beyond that, the cliff face plummeted to the water below, a potentially fatal drop for her.

The rjet had finally fallen just before it too would have gone over the edge, but its enraged charge at the bite of the spear had sent it charging right at her, pushing her into panicked flight. They were stupid but dangerous; it had been aware of Anya but hadn't perceived her as a threat. This one was a full grown male, close to three thousand pounds. It had continued browsing until the yautja it hadn't been aware of crept silently up to it in full cloak and plunged a spear right through its tough scaly hide, setting off a chain reaction that had almost resulted in her being injured or killed.

He led her to the kill to tug his spear free and retract it to its portable size then affix it to its holder on his kit. He pulled a skinning knife from its sheath on his calf and cut into its belly, beginning an efficient field dressing of the carcass while she watched. Unusual for females, he knew that Anya was a hunter. Unbeknownst to her he'd followed her on one of her hunts, watching her take down a doe with a complex bow and a single arrow. She'd gutted and dressed the kill herself so he was aware that the activity wouldn't make her squeamish.

On the contrary she crept up close to see, studying the thickness of the tough hide before reaching out to touch it. "How'd you pump a spear through this thing?" she murmured, becoming bolder in her exploration. "It's practically made of kevlar."

"Kevlar," he echoed, then made a low trill immediately after.

"Armor," she clarified. "Stuff can stop a bullet. Looks like this can, too." She was picking up enough to learn him a bit and respond accordingly. He was aware, however, that she responded accordingly when it served her need or desire to do so. In other words, she was smart enough to understand and stubborn enough to decide whether or not to behave as expected.

He grunted acknowledgement as he reached shoulder-deep into the rjet's body cavity to sever the esophagus and work the guts out. What she'd said was true enough; even in infancy the animal's hide was tough enough to protect it from most predators and ensure it was fairly impervious to most injury. L'tor doubted any human would be capable of impaling one with a seven foot long spear that was six inches in diameter at its widest.

He wasn't human, though, and he'd been trained by the best. They'd taught him the art of _zha-ca'ivo_, the quick, clean kill. Any idiot could shoot a rjet from a distance with a plasma caster or a shoulder cannon, but not everyone could creep up to one with nothing but a bladed weapon. He'd been cloaked so she hadn't seen the act of execution beyond the thrust of the spear. He'd taken a running leap to build up momentum, adding enough torque to spin himself mid-air before driving the spear through the rjet just behind its forelimb at the point above its elbow. It had been a perfect killing blow, impaling the primary heart and lungs and retarding its movement because the spear had been lodged just behind its forelimbs. The animal had bolted in startled reaction, right at Anya, but its stride had been limited, lessening its quickness. It had dropped dead in three shortened, breathless strides and plowed forward another length before coming to rest ten feet from the edge of the cliff.

She'd gone silent now, examining the guts as he methodically cut their anchor points of sinew and muscle, fascinated by its thick gel-like royal-blue blood. She paid special attention to the animal's hubcap-sized heart that bore the mortal wound. There was another, smaller heart nearer the tailbone, but damaging that one would only incapacitate the rjet, not kill it.

Deciding to leave the hide, head and legs intact for now, L'tor pulled an anchor point for a tether from his kit and jammed it into the head of the carcass, then activated the prongs. He tugged on it, testing to make sure they'd deployed beneath the skull to ensure a good hold. When he activated the tether from his drop ship he didn't want the anchor to come loose from the carcass and drop it.

Satisfied it was secure he rose to his full height. This field trip had served several needs, not the least the procurement of a rjet. The meat would restock his supplies and he intended to prepare and serve her the best piece of it later, somewhat hoping to impress her with his ability to obtain and prepare quality food for her.

Most importantly, the excursion had meant removing her from her comfort zone to test her coping skills. She'd done well, surprisingly so, and he was pleased. She seemed to delight in the opportunity to experience a new planet, with new flora and fauna, showing him a fascination and an interest to learn, to see, to try. He'd equipped himself lightly for this trip: no armor, no weapons beyond the basics and his kit. It gave him a feeling of freedom and relaxation and he'd moved faster because of it. On his worst day and her best she couldn't keep up with him, but she'd maintained the pace he'd set without complaint. Occasionally he'd lose her, backtracking to find her looking at something that had caught her eye.

He couldn't decide if it bothered him or pleased him when she did that; she was confident in his ability to find her and keep track of her, obviously, but she put herself in potential danger, too. This was his private hunting preserve and he knew it well. He'd long since eliminated most of the large predators but there were plenty of smaller ones that wouldn't hesitate to take her on, as well as dangerous and venomous plants. For now he decided to let her do as she pleased and enjoy the outing, resolving himself to keep a close watch on her.

Not that that was a hardship. As he'd noted before, Anya moved well, with a feminine grace that was easy on the eyes, a rhythmic rolling sway of her hips as she swung her legs with each step. She was good outside the concrete and walls most oomans surrounded themselves with but he'd already had an inkling of that after having tracked her in the forest near her dwelling. She watched her step, she kept her head up, stayed alert, moved quietly. Her stealth had allowed her to get close to the rjet he'd seen sign of and started stalking miles before.

Now it was time to head back for his drop ship. He could have called it to him but elected instead to continue with their outing and see what came up, in no particular hurry to return to his ship and actually enjoying the excursion. It surprised him; he was usually a rapid and efficient forager as a matter of course and took no particular pleasure in it: in and out, restock the pantry, on to the next trophy or back to training the unBlooded. The presence of the female slowed him down but it wasn't an annoyance. It was telling, actually. Surprising. He wondered if he had finally reached an age where he was starting to become soft.

"Whazzat?" Anya said behind him, pulling him out of his thoughts. He'd been leading her along the edge of the cliff, intending to make his way down to the water to wash off the rjet's blood. He hesitated, then turned back to her, unsure of what she'd said.

"Whazzat," he repeated, seeing her looking down to the water's edge below. She giggled, not looking at him. It was another trait that was starting to endear him to her: her easy laughter and good humor, often enough at her own expense. That simple realization had made it easier to take when it was at his expense.

"What. Is. That?" she asked clearly, then pointed down the gorge to the rocky shoreline. He looked, then flinched and crested. Another yautja, cloaked. In his private preserve. It startled him that she'd even seen the interloper; while his kind was capable of seeing into the infrared spectrum, the cloaking technology had been specifically developed for prey with eyesight like hers. She must have caught a flicker of motion and recognized it for what it was.

"Good eye," he praised her absently as he stared down at the stranger, something he was used to saying to his unBlooded during their training hunts. "Stay."

With that he made his way directly down the face of the cliff while she watched, amazed. He found handholds where there were none that she could see, not even scattering a single pebble as he leapt twenty lateral feet to the next one. _Good god he's half-monkey_, she thought, kneeling and leaning over the edge to stare. His movements were graceful and sure and confident, his progress rapid. By the time he was spotted, which she assumed was the case when the other one uncloaked, he was almost on him.

She watched him stride with confidence to the other at the water's edge; they greeted each other with a fist pounded across their chests followed by a shoulder-to-shoulder grab. She supposed they were talking. Didn't seem too aggressive, especially when the one she recognized as L'tor went to the water to start washing himself off. The stranger raised his head and looked up at her, seeming to study her for a moment before returning his attention to L'tor.

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><p>He'd been nearly to the bottom when he recognized the interloper as his old n'yaka-de, the Master who had trained him to fight and sent him to his chiva. The Elder trilled a greeting as he dropped heavily to the stony ground and strode out to meet him, then surprised him with an informal greeting after returning L'tor's respectful fist-to-chest motion. Many seasons had passed since this yautja had trained him but the respect was still there. For his kind, Masters became like fathers and the bonds they formed with their students were deep and strong.<p>

It was a long time ago that he'd invited his Master to feel free to make use of his hunting preserve, proud to show off what his prosperity and rank had earned him thanks to the excellent training he'd received.

"What is that?" Ci'tde demanded, using their native tongue as he looked up at the top of the cliff.

"Ooman female," L'tor said, washing the blue blood off his arms. He was aware of Ci'tde turning to look at him.

"Ooman female?" he echoed, then trilled. "_You_?"

L'tor closed his eyes for a moment, methodically rubbing at the blood. He knew his Master would object; seasons after being Blooded on kainde amedha his Master had invited him on an excursion to hunt pyode amedha, oomans. He'd shown an aptitude for it and enjoyed their cunning as well as the myriad ways they responded to threat. You just never knew how an ooman was going to react in any given situation, which added to the thrill and excitement of the hunt.

Like the rest of his kind, though, he hadn't hunted them in many turns of their planet, long enough for the succeeding generations of yautja to never know what it was like. Since the oomans' status change, the younger yautja viewed the planet as a breeding colony of potential mates, and an entertaining one at that.

"Yes, Master," he said quietly, resignedly. "I have no choice, if I wish to continue my line. There are others clamoring for my offspring." It was true; some of his his hunt brothers had become successful Masters themselves and they were itching to train his future pups, hoping to have the honor of the next L'tor.

His Master snorted. "Take me to it," he demanded, some of the old authority in his tone. L'tor stiffened then subsided. He would, of course, as much as he didn't want to. There was a possibility that Anya's spirit would impress him, too.

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><p>When the newcomer reached out and roughly grabbed her face, Anya yelped in startled surprise and not a little bit of pain. In reaction L'tor snarled and grabbed the other one's hand off her face, using his other hand to ease her back behind him. She willingly moved with him, sidling out of the other's reach as he glared at her.<p>

"Master," he said carefully, his tone deferentially low, "she is under my protection and not to be harmed." His ears were roaring with his own daring; he had never defied his Master before. "She has given you no reason to be so rough with her."

"Its existence in your presence offends me," the Elder growled. L'tor nodded, accepting the rebuke.

"I have no choice," he reminded him, releasing the hand he'd pulled off Anya's face.

"Where are its breeding marks?" his Master demanded, ignoring his attempt to shield Anya and moving around him to get a better look at her. She skirted L'tor to keep her distance, stepping back now from both of them. The grunting and growling conversation in a language she didn't understand and the overwhelming tension were starting to freak her out, and having her face grabbed hadn't helped. She touched her cheek and saw blood on her fingers from the grey one's claws.

"I haven't bred her yet," L'tor admitted.

The Elder wheeled around on him and stared. "You're _courting_ it?" he realized. "Will I next come across you rutting atop a kainde amedha?"

The barb was rude and disrespectful and more than he could bear. He bellowed from deep in his chest, spreading his arms wide and crouching low. The challenge caught his Master offguard and made him step back and duck his head.

"It is enough!" he demanded, raising his voice to a roar. "Perhaps if our Elders had been more diligent in discovering what was killing off their females instead of hunting for trophies we would not be reduced to fucking our prey to avoid extinction!"

His return shot had bordered on blasphemy but he didn't care. He panted, glaring, waiting for a response, daring the Elder to either engage or submit.

"Your ooman runs," his Master said, his tone lower.

L'tor turned his head and saw that Anya was gone. _Gone_.

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><p>The second L'tor spread those mammoth arms and bellowed in rage, Anya took off like a shot. Didn't matter that it hadn't been pointed directly at her; it was fucking <em>terrifying<em>. There was a dispute and it had something to do with her, that was all she knew. She wasn't sticking around to find out how the situation resolved itself and she didn't want to be involved in it. All she knew was that she was heading for ze hills, as fast as her legs could take her there.

There was another bellow, a demanding summons. They were, she supposed, calling her back. No way, Hosea. She was so outta there.

So she kept running, slapping aside broadleaf plants, leaping over vines and branches, dodging and weaving around trees and boulders. The hot air here was odd, like it was thin on oxygen, and her exertion and panic had her gasping for breath as she continued her heedless charge.

She slid down a small embankment, maybe six feet, kicking up enough dust to choke her before catching her foot on a rock. It had been startling enough to jar some sense into her, making her realize she had no idea where she was and that it probably wasn't a good idea to be alone and unarmed. She sat up, panting to catch her breath as she looked around. The odd muted sunlight through the red-tinged clouds gave everything she looked at a haze that bothered her eyes, and she looked up at the sky, wishing she was home where she belonged.

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><p>Aware that his Master was keeping with him, L'tor put his old ooman tracking skills to use. He'd hunted them in jungles, in deserts and in the colonies they called cities. Anya hadn't made any attempt to cover or disguise her passage, making it that much easier, and he moved swiftly, on the alert for the next sign of her. And he was pissed.<p>

"You will not touch her again," he hissed to the Elder tracking beside him. There had been an immense paradigm shift between them and they were both aware of it. Had L'tor issued that same challenge a few seasons past, his Master would have answered it and engaged him. But their roles had reversed and L'tor found himself to be the undisputed dominant.

"No," Ci'tde agreed, his tone still low and subdued. "I will help you find it, then I will take my leave of you."

"Yes. You will," L'tor agreed with a snarl. "Your behavior was shameful. I had thought more highly of you than that."

The Elder said nothing, maintaining his position one pace back and allowing his former student to lead the way, deferring to L'tor as L'tor had once deferred to him.

"It was she who spotted you, not I," L'tor added. "I was far too busy paying attention to her to notice anything else." Only half-true; nothing would have crept up on him but he _was_ fixated more on the female than anything else, half fascinated and half watching for her to do something that would cause him to call this courtship off. But the point he was trying to drive home was that Master Ci'tde had been spotted by an ooman female first, before he'd even known they were there. And to boldly declare that he was enthralled with her to the exclusion of most everything else.

"I was cloaked," the Elder grunted. L'tor noticed he was starting to have trouble maintaining the blistering pace.

"I know. So did she. Not _it_," he added, since his Master's insistence on referring to Anya as an 'it' had been annoying the _c'jit_ out of him, too.

The Elder grunted again, acknowledging the rebuke, then followed L'tor through a jumble of boulders as he tracked Anya's weaving stampede through them. The ground was soft and sandy here and L'tor hesitated, lifting his head and flaring his mandibles as he drew in for her scent, using the olfactory pits between his upper tusks. She'd covered a lot of ground at speed and he felt a rising sense of urgency since darkness came quickly here. It wouldn't hinder his ability to track her but it would bring out the larger nocturnal predators.

"Here," his Master said softly, and moved away, leaping over two huge boulders that Anya had squeezed between but that they couldn't hope to fit through. "She should wind quickly," he said as they paused atop the boulder to take a look around. "The oxygen here is less than she's used to, unless she comes from a higher altitude?" he trilled. L'tor shook his head.

"She's already made it further than I would have given her credit for," he admitted, taking a hard look around and wishing he'd thought to bring his mask. It would give him the advantage of additional vision modes.

"She spooked. That can give them incredible endurance. Did you give her an implant?" the Elder asked, obviously utilizing his mask, if the way he was moving his head was any indication.

"No. I've staked a claim but I haven't made my final decision yet."

His Master looked at him. "You took her off-planet without an implant?" he asked, incredulous. The implant would allow him to track her easily, sending out a signal that he could triangulate and fix on. It wasn't an oversight; he wasn't going to implant her if he wasn't going to keep her. "No matter. We will continue to do it the traditional way." He leapt off the boulder and landed heavily with a chest-deep grunt, then headed out.

They split forces when they crossed the end of the boulder field and though still angry with his Master, L'tor was grateful for the vastly experienced assistance he offered. Anya was light and small, a single female in soft shoes moving swiftly, not a platoon of heavily laden hard-soled male soldiers moving methodically. He lost the trail in a scattering of herd prints and backtracked to find that the Elder had already picked it up and was well ahead of him.

* * *

><p><em>Okay now what the hell is this<em>? Anya wondered, staring at the kangaroo-looking lizard things. There were a mess of them picking at the edge of an open field, propped up on massive hind limbs and leaning forward by rocking onto their smaller forelimbs as they slowly hunched along. There was a shrill cry and several of them suddenly stood upright and raced after a smaller furry thing one of them had flushed from the grass. They were fast as hell with a bipedal gait. Okay, nothing like a kangaroo, then. And probably not very friendly.

She backed into the brush and started making her careful way around them, staying low. She was feeling a little light-headed and woozy, and concerned about that fact; she'd done enough high-altitude skiing to recognize the signs of altitude sickness. It would impair her judgment, slow her reflexes and wreak havoc with her stamina, none of which she could afford right now. _Could this day get any worse_? she wondered, then stifled the thought in case it brought her bad luck.

There was another bellow, closer now but still a good ways off. She paused and looked back, wondering. Were they still fighting? She hunkered down, debating. She didn't know what she'd done wrong in the first place but it had landed her in some hot water between two three-hundred pound beings that were each capable of tearing her head off. Obviously she'd done something to deserve the giant hand to her face that had dug welts into her skin. The grey one had wanted at her something fierce.

Thinking of the scratches, she reached up again and touched her cheek. Still bleeding. She wished she had a mirror so she could see how bad it was; her imagination was killing her. Even on the opposite side his thumbclaw had ripped into her. That baby had stripped a cut to down below her jaw that throbbed in time with her heartbeat. She didn't doubt she was bruised, too, where his fingers had dug into her.

Feeling a need to keep moving she rose up off her haunches, got her bearings, and kept going. Then it occurred to her that they were hunting her, that the reason the bellow had been closer might be because they'd picked up her trail and were closing in. _Shit_. They used to hunt humans; who says L'tor didn't bring her here for a little old-fashioned game of hunt the ooman? Like Ivy had said, he was one from the old school. The grey one was definitely older.

She picked up the pace again, starting to huff already. One of the kangaroo-things popped its head up and looked across the brush at her from thirty feet away, then honked. It shot terror through her system and she bolted, charging into deeper forest in hopes that they stayed out on the plains. There was another answering honk, followed by a frightening throaty rattling sound. Could be she'd spooked them into the opposite direction. Could be they were hunting her, too.

Baring her teeth, she pushed her focus, concentrating on her footing and watching where she was going. Last thing she needed was another cliff to run off of; that had been stupid. The eerie red light had gotten deeper and it didn't penetrate very well into the heavier foliage. Here and there were things that were iridescent, that scattered at the sound of her passage, that issued high alarm calls. She ignored them and continued pushing, starting to pay closer attention to the trees...or tree-like plants, looking for one she could climb.

Another honk well off to her right put her on notice that the kangaroo-things were still in hot pursuit. Not good. She had the sense they were pack hunters, which would lessen her odds of getting out of this chase alive. She tossed glances over her shoulders, left and right, not wanting to be herded into some kind of trap. She had to look a couple of times before she spotted the one to her right, plunging along, front legs tucked up tight to its belly, long, thin ears flat back against its head. Maybe there was just one, then.

Thinking that, she veered to the left, hoping it wasn't pushing her into the other forty that she couldn't see. She jumped a small stream and found a good-sized branch on its bank, then lunged for it and got a good grip on it. No more running scared; it was time to stand her ground and fight. She turned and put her back to some heavy-trunked plant, holding up the branch and nervously adjusting her grip. There was the sound of crashing foliage then the thing appeared on the far bank, running at a good clip but looking like it was breezing along. It made her suspicious. Probably the point man. When it saw her it hissed and powered up, leaping the stream and unfolding its front limbs to bare ridiculous claws.

She waited, timing it, then stepped and swung, putting everything she had into it. She felt the wood connect with a jarring impact, thanking her lucky stars she'd found a solid branch with some heft to it. She hit the thing square on the side of the head and knocked the stuffing out of it. It spun with the force of the blow and came crashing down onto its side, giving her just enough time to step out of the way as it tumbled past her and into some heavy growth.

"Motherfucker," she sputtered through clenched teeth, still holding the bat up like she was ready for another pitch, moving it slightly as she tensed and watched the thing thrash noisily, scratching and clawing and kicking spastically. It rattled and shuddered then fell completely still. Anya waited, then cautiously made her way around it to see the head, prepared to give it another good whack if the first one hadn't been enough to convince it to leave her alone.

_Smashed_. The eyes were wide open and unseeing, and bloody blue foam flecked its long narrow jaw. She'd killed it. Well goddamn. She was a one hit wonder.

There was the sound of another one coming and she brought the bat up and resumed her stance, ready to knock this one out of the park, too. What materialized on the other side of the stream, though, was far worse than another kangaroo-thing. It was the greying yautja, moving stealthily with a metal spear in his hand. She was downright fucked.

He ticked, pausing, and she held still and waited in her batter-up position even though she supposed he was as capable as L'tor at throwing or jamming that thing right up her ass from a hundred yards. He straightened and clenched the spear, retracting it, then he chortled, the sound rusty and grating. He issued a loud, grunting call that made her jump back and almost trip over the dead kangaroo-lizard by her feet. She scrambled to maintain her balance, not letting her guard down or taking her eyes off the pissy yautja. If she'd thought hers had a bad temper it was nothing compared to this one. There was a distant answering bellow and he roared back thunderously, shaking her out of her nerves.


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you _so much_ for your kind reviews, and for making this story a favorite! Because of you I'm trying to keep up a pace of steady updates for this story to keep it rollin'.

Just an FYI note, sorry about these things: ~*~*~*~ Consider them minor section breaks for point-of-view switches, to keep things from getting confusing. Not complaining but the text editor is really bitchy about any attempt to put an extra space between paragraphs so I'm resorting to silliness in order to make it happen.

The usual disclaimer applies: don't own it, don't make money off it. Please don't sue.

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><p>When L'tor followed the <em>ka'rik'na<em>, Ci'tde's summons, and came across them, he paused and stared. Anya was on the opposite side of a stream, holding up a good-sized branch and moving it threateningly, her teeth bared. At her feet was a dead _p'ryla-to_, full grown. And standing across from her was Master Ci'tde, still doing his low, rattling chuckle.

"What happened?" he demanded, his trill low but heavy with authority.

"It's much as you see. It was pursuing her and I wasn't far behind. I think she killed it."

"Killed it?" he echoed, crowning as he tucked his chin and stared. When he gathered himself and stepped toward her she hastily sprang back.

"You want some of this?" she hollered, the club restlessly threatening.

"I think she intends to hit you, too," the Elder said, amused.

"I think she does," L'tor agreed, amazed and unsure what to do about it. "An'eya," he said, putting the exotic accent on her name.

"_What_?"

The Elder guffawed at her tone.

"Put it down," he ordered her. She puttered her lips at him and muttered under her breath.

"You speak ooman now, too?" his Master trilled. "Soon she will be dressing you in their clothes."

Ignoring him, L'tor said to Anya, "Time to go back."

"Back? Love to, but I don't feel like getting anymore fucked up."

Fucked, a sexual term, similar to _pauk_ in his native tongue. He rumbled, struggling with her statement. It sounded to him like she was implying she'd been having intercourse with the dead p'ryla-to.

"You're remarkably patient with this," his Master observed.

Clenching his fists he growled, "What would you suggest?"

The Elder grunted. "Go over there and disarm her. I would never allow a female to hold a weapon against me."

"It is a stick, not a plasma caster."

"Even so."

L'tor looked at him, thinking it was no wonder Master Ci'tde had never taken a mate. It was possible no female would have him. "I do not wish to harm her."

Another grunt, this one disdainful, and Ci'tde folded his arms. "You can't disarm her without hurting her? I used to believe you were the best student I ever had."

Giving himself a rough, aggravated shake, L'tor stepped forward once again. When he splashed across the stream Anya hollered, "That's close enough!" her body swaying as she prepared to swing at him. He ignored her words, choosing instead to meet the challenge she'd presented him with. He had to admit to himself that it excited him to see her like this: fiery and aggressive, knowing she didn't stand a chance against him but standing her ground anyway.

When he came within range she swung the branch; he reached up and caught the strike dead center of his palm, then closed his fingers around her weapon. Swearing, she tugged, pulling with her back and shoulders, digging her feet into the soft ground. An excellent effort but with nowhere near the force she'd need to pull it from his grip.

"An'eya," he said, as quietly as he could with his deep, rolling voice. She wasn't getting the pauking stick back; the last thing he needed was for his Master to see her cracking him with it.

She hesitated and met his eyes finally, still holding defiantly onto her weapon. "I didn't do anything wrong," she said softly. Her words made him blink, then he wondered if she thought she was going to be punished for killing the animal.

"No," he agreed.

"Then why's that guy gotta try to rip my face off? And why were you roaring?" she asked.

He rumbled and crested, alarmed by her interpretation of what had happened with Master Ci'tde. It was why she'd run and why she was defying him even now. It brought his anger back and caused another internal shift, this time of priorities.

"He was wrong," he said simply, in answer to both questions. She continued to stare at him, thinking it over and easing off some of the pressure she was using to haul on the branch.

"What's that mean?" she asked suspiciously.

"What I said. He was wrong." He'd never thought he'd live to see the day come when he chose another over his Master, or worse, when he declared his Master to be wrong. And the Elder had compounded the problem by refusing to back down and respect L'tor's choice of female, causing him to roar a challenge that had sent her running in fear, thinking she'd been at fault.

"What now?" Anya asked, mollified.

"Let go the weapon," he advised, aware of his Master's clucking impatience with how long it was taking him to disarm her. She considered another moment then opened her hands and released the club. When she did she took a wary step back from him, a movement he noticed and that made him rumble in annoyance.

He tossed the branch into the foliage then moved past her to crouch at the p'ryla-to's head. He lifted it and chortled softly, seeing that she'd not only nicely caved its skull in but also broke its jaw. Looked like a single well-aimed and swung blow. Too bad she'd ruined the potential of making a trophy from it. But the mortal wound told him that it had been confronting her, mouth open. If its jaw had been shut there was no way she would have been able to break it with blunt force. His eyes traced the tracks it had left coming out of the stream: full stride. It had been charging her.

"What?" Anya asked uncertainly when L'tor looked up at her from beside the dead lizard-kangaroo, mentally picturing the scene of her standing there with nothing but a branch while a predator two times her size ran at her. Most impressive. It wasn't an animal he personally would be bothered with but it was a formidable opponent for someone her size and she'd bested it with an improvised weapon, even after leading two yautja on a chase for miles. No one's prey animal, this female.

The thwei – blood – on her face caught his attention and he momentarily thought the animal had gotten in one good slash before she'd killed it. But no, the tears, one on one side, three on the other, were downward-slashing marks. The Elder had dug his claws into her face; now he understood better what she'd meant when she'd asked why he'd tried to rip her face off. Turning to glare at his Master, he issued a low, throbbing growl. Ci'tde stood there solemnly but Anya backed another step from him.

He purred to reassure her and rose to stand, motioning her to cross the stream toward his Master. Aware that the idea didn't thrill her he moved ahead, splashing back across as she chose to nimbly hop on a stone midway across it, then to the opposite bank. When he drew even with the Elder he unconsciously drew in a deep breath and allowed his thick tresses to crown, projecting menace without saying a single word. Again Ci'tde lowered his gaze.

"She broke the skull and the jaw," he said slowly. "She belongs to me. You will not touch her again."

Keeping his face averted, the Elder nodded.

With a dismissive grunt, L'tor turned from him and headed back for his ship. Anya followed at a distance and he kept part of his awareness on her but behaved as if he didn't know she was there. She gradually closed the distance as he paused here and there, pretending to get his bearings, eventually resuming the proximity she'd maintained before they'd come across Ci'tde, before the disaster that had left her injured, running scared and fighting for her life. He kept the pace easy and chose the path of least resistance to allow her to keep up without further winding herself. He didn't need further proof of her stamina and endurance today. He'd been pleased enough with her performance before she'd run for miles and killed a p'ryla-to with a stick, then faced off with himself and his Master, two amongst the highest ranked yautja in their clan. If Ci'tde couldn't see her value it didn't matter. She had the potential to whelp strong pups, ones that even he could be proud of. Now it was a matter of finding out if she could be tamed.

When he returned her to his drop ship he made sure she was settled before directing it to climb, remembering to return to the rjet carcass to retrieve their dinner. The tether worked well, pulling the meat up into the hold of the drop ship. When it was safely stowed he directed the small craft to return to his cruiser.

Anya was quiet as she offloaded. He directed her to the bathing room as he took command of the carcass and moved it to the cooler, taking the time to carve out the loin. He prepared it with care, knowing it was best when eaten fresh, hoping it pleased her. He didn't dwell on the change in his attitude toward her, on his now viewing her as a worthy female instead of an also-ran. Their excursion hadn't comforted him; it had _impressed_ him. She proved to have more guts and heart than some of the unBlooded yautja he'd trained in his earliest days as a Master, before his reputation and the success of his proteges meant that he received only the best of his clan's young. Some of them, he couldn't help but think of those early students, would have died given the same circumstances.

He'd come into his prime. A sobering realization. Somewhere along the line of living his life, finding his Path, following the code of the hunt and honoring the gods, he'd come into his full potential. He'd been aware, of course, of the status and rank he'd achieved in life, of the level of respect he'd come to consider his due. It had come of a combination of hard effort, age, skill and fortune. He'd long since ceased comparing himself to others, bristling in defiance and challenge to test reactions. He'd become comfortable enough and confident enough to settle into his place in life and he no longer felt the need to seek battles to better his station. The rest, he knew, would come in time. The Elders were watching, impressed with his intelligence and leadership qualities, and contemplating offering him an opportunity to join his voice to those who made decisions that would affect the entire clan. The Arbitrators, the honored ancients from all clans who punished those yautja who failed to follow The Path laid down for all yautja and conduct themselves with honor, were watching him as well, considering him a worthy applicant for a future in their ranks, should he survive long enough.

But today, L'tor realized, he'd come to a point where even his own Master deferred to him, a point few yautja reached before their Masters grew too old for battles. He hadn't intended to issue Ci'tde a challenge, but he hadn't hesitated to respond to his Master's insults and disrespect. While he hadn't been consciously aware of his own comfort level with a high attitude of dominance, perhaps some instinctive part of him deep inside had and that was the reason he'd changed his focus from hunting and training to courtship.

He checked on Anya, sleeping deeply and soundly in the furs on his pallet. Such a small thing that still somehow managed to take up so much _space_. Not only in his bed, but wherever she was. Perhaps it was her liveliness, and the characteristics that made her so different than him: her humor, her curiosity, her fascination, her determination to just experience everything to its fullest.

He'd planned on returning her to her home after this excursion and now he debated it. Should she wake up here or in her own sleeping pallet? She wasn't currently helping him make the decision either way, though he suspected she would prefer the familiar, where she was most comfortable.

The problem was, he knew he needed to reassure her. That, if he took her home now and left her on her own, their next encounter would be less comfortable, not more. Ci'tde had caused chaos today. Traumatized her. Had they not come across him L'tor would have been comfortable taking her to her home and arranging another meeting, one that he could be confident she would be relaxed and more accepting of. Now, he wasn't so sure.

It startled him to realize he was purring softly. The sound hesitated when he became consciously aware of it, then he relaxed and let it flow. The purr was intimate, reserved for the choice few in a male yautja's brutal life, and even then reserved for specific situations. It was usually a short, quick sound of reassurance or even relief, or sometimes to indicate pleasure. But this purr was different than any other he'd made before, a long, steady rumble that came unbidden from the chest, an expression of comfort and affection.

L'tor had been told that the mating purr had had the ability to pacify their females and make them more receptive to breeding, assuring the female of the male's intentions. To hear it coming from his chest and directed toward the ooman female in his pallet was shocking, and he mulled it over as he allowed it to flow. He'd never purred like this before and he'd assumed, since it was a mate response between yautja, that he never would. He had simply been seeking a surrogate to carry and nurture his pups, not what he would consider a true mate. He had resigned himself to rutting with female oomans but never once had he considered it was possible for him to have any particular affection for one beyond the bond one could share with a favored pet. The purr advised him to reconsider.

It was effective on him, too, he realized, feeling himself slowly shedding the stress of the day. It became stronger, louder, as if it had been tentative at first but now that he was aware of it and allowing it, it grew in depth and volume as if it was gaining confidence. Or simply because the tight muscles in his chest were relaxing their tension and resonating with the purr instead of constricting its flow.

He moved closer to the bed, watching Anya for any reaction. The purr had given him an idea how to further test her while at the same time reassuring her about her performance this day. She didn't stir as he eased himself onto the pallet, aware that the purr had changed its focus from a general throb to one now being directed at her. He moved closer stealthily, mesmerized by the sound coming out of himself and the sensations it evoked in him. He'd been aggravated and bothered by what happened earlier but that faded away as his thoughts were redirected. It was supposed to soothe females, and whether or not it worked on Anya it was most definitely soothing him.

She made a small sound and he hesitated, freezing to stillness in the process of moving delicately under the furs as she shifted. Every sign indicated that while her rest was disturbed by his movements she was still relaxed and not coming fully awake. She rolled over to face him; most of his weight was balanced on his elbow, hip and leg, his opposite hand holding the furs up off the pallet in an attempt to locate where her body was within them. He wanted contact with her and he sensed that, if awake, she wouldn't be willing.

She settled back down and he continued to hold himself completely still, watching and listening to her breathing. When it deepened again he eased himself closer, finding the warm nest her body had created and inviting himself into it. Slowly he settled in and made himself comfortable, lying on his back and letting out a quiet breath as he listened to Anya sleep. His purr had found its rhythm now that he was still, and he could feel the sensation of its vibration beneath the muscles of his chest. It filled his ears to the point where he could no longer sense the workings of his ship, the familiar sounds of thrusters and heating elements and air scrubbers, the internal workings and processes that cycled on and off with comforting regularity. He was usually attuned to these things and he'd become adept at knowing when something wasn't functioning optimally, either by the timing of its cycles or the sounds it made during its operation.

It bothered him for a bit but the purr continued. He could forcibly stop it but he chose not to, sensing that despite the loss of his intimate connection with his ship, the purr was helping to create another connection. He also couldn't help but wonder if purring wasn't good for his well-being. That perhaps he'd been alone for too long. It made him think about Master Ci'tde, his callousness and his inability to properly read a social situation. There was, L'tor realized, an excellent chance that he too was following that path, that he was well on the way to taking on that edge that lone yautja got when they traveled the systems alone too long, hunting solo.

Relaxed but not tired, L'tor stared at the curved mutely lighted ceiling over his sleeping pallet and let his thoughts drift. Odd, to be so..._uncomfortable_ in his own bed. Uncomfortable might not be the right word, because it wasn't bothering him. He'd never shared his bedding with anyone, though he had shared other beds. Rented females were not permitted to leave their shops in order to prevent abduction or injury outside the protection of their harem masters. Their beds were distasteful and nowhere near as opulent and comfortable as his own. Set on a platform that could be raised and lowered to his preference, the thick pallet itself was of the highest quality, firm and supportive. It was covered and blanketed with furs from a large and notoriously elusive animal with short, soft, dense hairs. Rented beds were simple pads with blankets woven from plant fibers. And a rented bed would never boast a headboard like his, carefully crafted from bones woven together to form an intricate design, standing out a stark shining white against the dark shell of his ship's hull.

Everything, of course, the furs and the bones, were his trophies, from his kills. He'd taken them to the appropriate crafters; the furs for curing and tanning, and to be knit skin-to-skin to form blankets that were top and bottom fur. The bones he'd brought to an artist, along with his request for a headboard and a simple concept of what he was looking for. It had taken the yautja artisan a long time to create the final piece and L'tor had been more than pleased with it. He took personal pride in his sleeping pallet, in the time and expense it had taken to create it, in the number of cycles and successful hunts he'd undertaken to properly furnish it. And when he had first placed Anya into it he'd stood back and stared, realizing just then that he'd always had the niggling thought that something was still missing from his bedding, and that he'd just figured out what it was. Something about the small female curled up in it fit just right, the final rare and expensive trophy that was needed to finish the bed off.

He shifted now, feeling confident that Anya was deeply enough asleep that a possible touch wouldn't wake her. He moved his hand over her and laid it on the other side of her, framing her between his side and his arm. She twitched as he brushed against her, made a small sound in her throat, but otherwise remained still.

When Anya next woke it took her brain a moment to remind her where she was. L'tor's ship. That would explain the low lighting and black walls, then, the pervasive darkness of his surroundings that she wondered how he could stand. Her bed at home was situated by an eastern-facing pair of windows and she woke with the warmth and light of the sun on her, no matter what the season. This was a gloomy contrast, not to mention disorienting. She felt a little lost with no rise and fall of a sun to let her know whether it was morning, afternoon or night.

It was, however, beyond comfy. She'd invested a lot in her bed but it couldn't match this..._nest,_ was probably the best word. The furs were soft satin and silk against her skin, and they trapped heat nicely, warming quickly. She drew in a slow, deep breath and stretched, then shuddered and froze when she encountered a hard obstacle and realized what it was.

L'tor rumbled, the sound low and slow and sounding very close. Anya eased her head up and realized, horror of horrors, that he had gotten into the bed with her. Even worse, that she was pressed close against his rough side to share his heat, and she could feel now that his arm was curved against her back, his hand cupping her backside. She hadn't remembered him being in the bed when she'd fallen asleep, and though she was mystified as to how he'd done it without waking her she supposed the firm support of the mattress helped, since obviously he was sunk more deeply into it than she was.

His deeply sunken eyes remained closed as she stared at him, wondering if he was asleep and what her next move should be. His eyelids and the skin around them was black, a fact that only added to the intensity of his fierce amber gaze when they were open. There were small dark spines on his heavy brows and along his cheekbones below his eyes that curved backward toward his hairline, and more on his huge forehead that resembled a turtle's shell. An indentation ran along its center and split his wickedly arched brow ridges, and along the edges of the shell-shape were points and lumps, above the place where his uppermost hairs sprouted. It gave him a crowned appearance, most especially when something caused those thick tresses to stiffen and rise at their roots. She'd seen that reaction enough times but she was still uncertain as to what caused it or what it signified.

His upper mandible twitched, bringing her attention to his mouth, the most eye-catching feature on an already fearsome face. The upper mandibles were short, coming just below his eyes and framing the upper jaw of his toothy mouth, each tipped with a small but sharp tusk. The thin flaps of skin and muscle that created his cheeks connected the upper mandibles to the lower, able to spread wide and tipped with huge tusks, each the length of her pointer finger. The upward bend of the lower mandibles was below the jaw of his mouth, giving him a jutting chin appearance.

The mandibles and brows were, to her limited experience, the most mobile parts of his face and therefore combined to create his expressions. Translating those expressions was, as far as Anya was concerned, pretty much impossible. It was too hard to get around the ferocity of his appearance, the burning gaze of his fierce eyes and the aggressive baritone of his vocalizations. To add the movements of sharp tusks and teeth was too much for her to deal with.

And now she was trapped between his body and his arm, debating her limited options. To move would no doubt wake him, and then what? Then she would have to deal with the pissy sonuvabitch. Thanks but no thanks. When she slumped back down with a quiet sigh the arm against her back moved, lifting a bit as he caressed her ass and tucked her a bit closer against his side. She stiffened in reaction, then heard a low, steady rumbling. It built as she listened, holding herself rigid and staring at the closed eyes of her captor, aware of nothing but that sound and the parts of him that were touching parts of her.

It was a growl, she thought. No, she'd never heard a growl that was this quiet and went on this long. It thrummed and throbbed steadily, slowly building to fill the room and drown out all other sound, including the hard hammering of her own heart in her ears. It was the sound of a diesel engine in a Mack truck throbbing at idle, a steady monotonous purr. The sound banged insistently at her senses, pounding away at her tension and passively wearing it down bit by bit.

It was coming, she realized, not from his throat but from his chest, from something in the core of his being. As she settled into it and got used to it she felt it was non-aggressive, something relaxed and calm and peaceful. He didn't move a muscle otherwise, his heavy arm resting on the furs behind her and keeping her tucked close against his side but not holding or restraining her there. What with the persistent twilight of his bedroom and the heat radiating from his body Anya felt herself easing down and entering a state of relaxation she never would have thought possible in his presence.

The thrumming continued without pause, steady and pulsing, a mind-numbing white noise. It encouraged her to just relax and be still because he was, to let herself settle down and let her mind ease into blankness. Her agitation subsided as she fell under its spell, hypnotized into numbness.

L'tor felt Anya go, paying attention to the beating of her heart and the pace of her breathing. He wasn't sure, after all, if the purr he was emitting would be effective against a female not of his kind, and he was pleased at the evidence that yes, it was. It seemed to cross species boundaries, at least between yautja and human, and effect calmness and tranquility. Her stiffness ebbed away and her head lowered quietly back to the furs, resting lightly in the crook between his chest and his arm. Gradually it got heavier as her breathing evened and deepened, steadying as the pattering of her heart calmed into a slower beat. He kept it up long after he was sure she'd fallen back asleep, maintaining an awareness of it until he, too, surrendered consciousness.

* * *

><p>L'tor was sitting at a back table by himself. He'd kicked all the other chairs away, putting any other yautja on notice that he wasn't interested in company, in case they missed the musk he knew he was putting out. Anya was not long for her world and he steeled himself to let her enjoy it, at least for a little while longer. He was <em>not<em> an impatient youngling lacking common courtesy. He had maturity. Self-control. And he was here to let Anya know that the time had come and he had made his decision. What she chose to do with the time she had left was up to her.

Anya had the sense that he was fucking fuming, but she didn't know why. He'd been fine with her wanting to play pool and she stuck with the girls to avoid a potentially dangerous situation. Problem was, her girlfriends couldn't play half as well as the guys, and eventually Mickey wandered over to her table and asked for a game. She kept tabs on L'tor but so long as Mickey maintained a respectful distance the yautja seemed to be okay with his presence.

It was rolling along well enough when Sammy walked in with his crew. She felt her stomach do a belly-flop when he looked at her and went still a moment, as if thinking things over. When he turned toward the bar and put his back to her she was momentarily relieved.

"What's he doin' here?" Mickey murmured, sauntering over to the table where she was standing to refill his glass from the pitcher.

"Dunno," Anya admitted, keeping her back to Sammy.

"What'll happen if he comes over here and tries to start up with you?" he wanted to know.

"You should move away," Anya advised, her eyes flicking to settle on L'tor, who was staring at her. "Far away."

"Shit," he swore under his breath.

"Ditto," she agreed. "I don't know what's up, just that something's up. He feels a little off to me," she said, speaking of L'tor. Not that she was by any means an expert on this particular subject, but the familiarity that had building between them seemed gone tonight, and she was now looking at a stranger. The arrival of her sort-of-ex-brother-in-law in Benny's Tavern was normally enough to put her off her game. The combination of Sammy and an aggressively bristling three hundred pound yautja in the same place with her at the same time felt ominous.

"Ask me, he wants to take the whole fucking place on. All at the same time," Mickey said, following along.

"Yeah. Something like that," she agreed. The yautja whose massive trophies still graced her front steps was steadily watching her. He seemed to be tightly wound, coiled with tension. The others of his kind that were here had commandeered another table, giving him space.

And they too were watching L'tor, Anya realized. Expectantly. They were usually boisterous but right now they were all sitting there quietly, watching L'tor from the corners of their eyes. _Just plain not good_, she thought, and sighed.


	8. Chapter 8

Okay, now I AM complaining. I apparently have no ability to break sections of text off from each other, either with extra spacing or stupid characters. That really cheeses me off. When I back-checked the last chapter I realized that it didn't put in the ~*~*~*~ that I'd apologized for in the beginning, probably confusing everyone and making the read choppy. I apologize. This text editor hates me. Maybe because I use OpenOffice? Damn, I'll have to use horizontal lines to break it up now.

You reviewers rock. If it weren't for you, this story would have died on the vine a week ago because I would have figured no one was interested, so why bother. Your enthusiasm and appreciation have kept it going, and if it keeps making you happy I'm honored.

Last warning...this story is not recommended for anyone under the age of 40, as it will deal with adult subject matter! I don't mean to insult or exclude anyone, but c'mon...you got this aggressive Alpha male buildup thing going here. L'tor's not looking for Anya to be his pen pal. If the subject matter doesn't interest you or makes you squeamish, I recommend that you move on.

The usual disclaimer: don't own it, don't make money off it. Just doing it for fun.

* * *

><p><em>The male is okay<em>, he told himself as he watched. He knew this male well enough, had seen him often. The male was no threat. _No pauking threat_. His blatant defiance in sticking close to Anya in full view of L'tor smacked of challenge, though. Anya was in season and L'tor had responded by entering the rut, and still the male ignored the signs and was behaving as if he was oblivious to both facts. And it was pauking pissing L'tor off.

As were the youngBloods at the next table over. They should know better than to sit there, waiting and pretending not to watch. Pauking disrespectful. He battled internally to hold himself back from getting up and confronting them, aware on a certain level that was becoming more and more distant that if he allowed himself to get going it was going to be hard to stop himself. It also pissed him off; he expected more from himself, more self-control, more discipline. Even over his own rut.

The ferocity building inside him was surprising, and not in a good way. The rage was becoming a tangible thing that was growing with every breath he took. He knew he should get up and leave before it took him over but he couldn't bring himself to walk away and leave Anya in a bar filled with ooman and yautja males. She was in _season,_ for Paya's sake. To walk away, even if he was able, would be disrespectful to her, and it would indicate to other males that he wasn't paying proper attention or that he lacked interest. It would open the door to challengers.

Despite his good intentions, this, he realized belatedly, had not been a good idea. He was L'tor, a highly ranked Blooded warrior, legendary for killing a queen kainde amedha. He should have realized his rut would give him tunnel vision capable of channeling all the rage in him to vie for and lay claim to the female he'd set his sights on. The ability to purr in her presence should have been warning enough that there were deeper instinctive drives inside him that were beyond his ability to control or direct.

He quietly flexed in the uncomfortable chair; as a nod to yautja patrons this bar had invested in larger, sturdier seating, placing them at tables in the dimly lit back corner where his kind preferred to gather and watch the show. They might be of adequate size but they weren't comfortable. He growled quietly, then realized his discomfort was adding to the building anger inside him. It was like every damn thing was conspiring to set him off tonight. He needed space. Distance.

_No_, he thought on the heels of that realization. He needed to get up, roar a challenge and meet any idiot who decided to accept it. And after, to claim his mate and take her out of here so he could properly respond to the signals her body was sending out. If he was lucky, she would be defiant. Challenge him. Force him to dominate her when he took her.

He shook his head with an aggravated snarl, trying to discipline himself to push his mind in a different direction as he felt himself responding to the mere thought of breeding Anya. He couldn't allow himself to become too aggressive; what if she submitted willingly? If he was too aggressive he might frighten her, might make her feel she was being punished.

But she wasn't going to go down without a fight and he damn well knew it. _A willing, submissive Anya_? He mentally snorted. Not going to happen. And he looked forward to taming her, to pauking the feral right out of her.

The cup in his hand cracked and he looked at it blankly, distantly. It took him a minute to realize he'd closed his hand around it hard enough to break it. A yautja-sized double pint shatter-proof cup. Good thing he'd drained it of its contents already or he'd be even more pissed off.

* * *

><p>"Okay, that can't fucking be good," Anya said quietly. The whole place had gone quiet and still when the sound of the cup snapping made them all look.<p>

"Thought those things were supposed to be unbreakable?" Kiki said, her voice small.

"I'll be right back," Anya decided, filling her glass and carrying it past the pool tables as she slowly, carefully, headed to the massive yautja at the back corner table. She pulled a chair from three tables away and dragged it with her. She heard a low throbbing when she was about ten feet away and it reassured her that it was okay to approach him, despite the strong hoppy scent he was putting out. Setting the chair facing backwards close to him, she straddled it and rested her elbows on the backrest, then sipped her beer as she assessed him.

"Big guy," she greeted him, and got a grunt in return. "That's technically impossible, you know," she said, nodding toward the broken cup on the table that his massive hand was still wrapped around. She took another sip. "When Ben bought 'em I took one out to the parking lot and ran it over a couple times. Even parked my car on it for a few hours. Damn thing didn't break."

He heard her. Understood every word, even. But he couldn't come up with a damned thing to say in response to her idle conversation so he just sat and stared at her. He didn't want to talk. He didn't give a _c'jit_ about the cup.

"So what I'm trying to say here is: what's wrong?" Anya asked, boldly meeting his stare. "Cuz clearly, something's eating at you. Did I...did I do something to piss you off? Like, is it me, or is it something else that's setting you off tonight?"

Anya went still and waited, though her insides were in knots. _This could be it_, she realized. _Courtship's over, he's taking off now_. Part of her was relieved and part of her was surprisingly saddened by the thought. She'd actually come to enjoy his company and the time she'd spent with him. He had provided experiences for her that no one else would ever have, excitement and adventure, trips to locales so exotic they didn't exist on earth. How crazy cool was that?

Who else could say they'd had filet mignon of the rjet that almost killed them? Or pulled a Babe Ruth on a p'ryla-to? How many humans had seen what the earth looked like from space in real life, not on tv or in a photograph? Or seen the things that she'd seen in the short time she'd known L'tor?

And all of it, she was well aware, under his watchful eye. Nobody messed with him. Except for the time she'd bolted and been forced to confront the kangaroo-lizard on her own she was never in danger. He'd given her full rein to go and do and see and experience, shadowing her and providing cover and freedom that gave her courage in situations where she would normally have been terrified.

L'tor drew in a deep breath, feeling his chest expand. The air was ripe with the hormonal indicators of her heat and he drew them in, feeling vital and alive, more focused now that she was within grabbing distance of him and no one else. It would have been better if, instead of bringing a chair over, she'd come directly to his lap...but that wasn't Anya, was it? No, she was even defiant as she indicated submission and willingness. He rumbled at her as it thrilled him, as he recognized her mixed signals of want and need but continued to hold her ground and insist on testing his capability to dominate her. He accepted her challenge with eager anticipation.

"And that means what, exactly?" she inquired, then sipped again.

He supposed she was exercising a female's right to be coy and evasive. To behave as if she wasn't in heat and she didn't recognize his rut. She was _insisting_ on challenge, then. Pauking excellent, thank Paya.

"It is you," he rumbled, his deep voice low and slow, rolling and baritone as he finally answered the question she'd greeted him with. Yautja preferred action or verbal, non-word responses; humans preferred talk. He would play it her way for now.

She nodded thoughtfully, her gaze going distant as she thought, _Well damn_. She'd been hoping that this whole courtship thing would be just a momentary setback in her life, a blip in time, that maybe when she successfully drove him off and came through it she would be immune to further yautja attention. But still, rejection was hard to take. Besides, she'd just started having fun with this, and _now_ he decides to call it off?

It was more than that, though. She'd initially been terrified of this massive predator but during their little intergalactic field trip, she'd come to discover an unexpected gentler side to him. He was protective and accommodating and, dare she say, tender with her. Once she'd come to that realization she'd felt, quite honestly, like she could take on the world and he would have her back. It gave her a heady feeling. Her past had been difficult and though she had her friends and her share of boyfriends she'd never felt the level of protective watchfulness and concern for her well-being that she'd experienced in the company of L'tor. For most of her casual friends and acquaintances she was an entertaining show, a party; for her closer friends she was an exasperating and volatile potential disaster waiting to happen. And for this yautja she was whatever she wanted to be, provided she maintained respect toward him.

It shocked her to realize she was comfortable with him, that she felt safer in his presence than she ever had before in her life, even now. Had he been bristling like this before taking her on that trip, she not only would never have dared to approach him, she would have vacated the bar. As annoyed as he felt right now, he was still being delicate and careful and patient toward her, still focusing on her to the exclusion of everything else.

For four days she'd had only one damned thing to worry about with him instead of having a hundred worries and concerns that she was constantly prioritizing and dealing with. There were no bills or deadlines or errands or responsibilities, no demands on her time from a hundred different people, no dramas that required her attention, no catastrophes that she had to fix or resolve. For a short time he'd taken all that away and replaced it with a dependence on him that she realized she was going to miss like hell.

The whole spaceship thing had been unbelievably cool. Little rough in the beginning when she was initially terrified and preoccupied with finding places to hide. True to his word, he'd left her alone and allowed her to explore, and in between hours of staring in horrified fascination out of every window she came across, she'd wandered. Occasionally he'd come find her in order to introduce her to specific things, like the bathroom. There was no sink in a yautja's version of a bathroom; she'd had to wash her hands in the high pressure multi-head shower that was more like a damned carwash, unable to help ending up soaking herself every damned time. Embarrassing as hell, and every time he'd found a dripping trail that led to her latest location he'd chortle at her in amusement.

She'd found what was probably considered the engine room eventually, a particularly hot and awesome place that worked wonders for drying her off. He wasn't thrilled with her being in there, she could tell. She'd tried napping in there and ended up burning the crap out of herself against some piece of machinery. That was when she was introduced to his clinic and forced to endure the application of some really stinky salve that not only cooled and soothed, but had the burn healed without blemish by the time he'd returned her to her house.

She slept more often and for longer than he did, and he made it clear that he expected her to do her sleeping in his bed, not on the floor in the engine room or anywhere else. Despite his occasional presence with her in the bed, there were no attempts to grab her boobs; on the contrary, he would purr for her to soothe her back to sleep. And holy crap, that bed. She'd never slept in one more comfortable. She already missed that damn bed, even if it tended on occasion to contain a yautja. He was, all things considered, a surprisingly good bed-mate. No snoring, no tossing and turning; just heat and purr. She'd been told by others that she had the tendency to kick like a mule for no apparent reason while she slept; if she'd done her can-can dance in L'tor's bed he'd never made mention of it.

In the end, she couldn't help but soften toward him. Four days of being at his absolute mercy, with no escape, had resulted in her being left at her front door feeling rested and relaxed with a belly full of rjet and not only respect but building affection for this yautja. He'd treated her as an honored guest and had required nothing in exchange but her company.

_Okay, get a grip_, she told herself, and swallowed some more beer as she debated what the next step should be. No more adventures, no more intergalactic travel, no more wandering an alien spaceship as it traveled the cosmos. It had been fun and exciting while it had lasted but it was over.

"Alright," she sighed, "no reason to make this difficult, right?" She lifted her eyes and looked at his fierce amber gaze, struck once more by his intensity and intelligence.

"No," he agreed, his mandibles lifted in an expression she now recognized as a smile. There was another rumble, chest not throat, that she knew was a pleased sound.

_Probably relieved I'm not giving him a hard time_, she thought, nodding again. "Well, I admit it's been fun. Thanks for the experience and take care of yourself, okay?" she said brightly. No hard feelings. She would never resent or regret the time she'd spent with L'tor.

He watched as she abruptly stood from the chair and gave him a respectful nod, a lowering of her chin, before she turned and simply walked away. He stared, brooding, unable to help but think she'd just dismissed him. When she returned to the table game with the sticks and balls and kept her back to him he snarled.

The gauntlet had been thrown down, he realized. She was putting him on notice, then. She'd recognized the change in their courtship and was defiantly challenging his ability and his right to take it to the next level and close the deal. At least, he had to admit, she'd had the confidence and respect to come to his face and announce her intent to defy.

His temper made him want to respond to her challenge immediately, but he caught hold of himself and stayed in his seat. No reason to make a scene; he would just sit and wait until she was ready to leave. Taking possession here would mean he would have to restrain himself in a way he wouldn't if he brought the confrontation to the privacy of her dwelling.

* * *

><p>"S'up?" Mickey asked her as she made her way back to the pool table. Anya shrugged, actually feeling a little glum about it coming to an end.<p>

"That's it, I guess. Seems like I'm off the hook," she said, then made herself meet his eyes and tried to be more cheerful than she felt. She'd thought L'tor would just leave now that he was done with her, and she was surprised he was still sitting there. Shrugging to Mickey she said, "Well, I have to admit it was fun while it lasted."

"Aw. Cheer up. Got your life back, right?" Mickey said, and looped an arm around her shoulders to give her a sideways bump-and-hug. They both flinched at the resounding snap and crackle that echoed in the bar, then looked at the back table where L'tor had repeated and completed the supposedly impossible task of shattering the cup still clenched in his hand. Only now his hand was a fist surrounded by pieces of the cup. Anya stared, wondering, and saw the bright glowing green of his blood. He'd cut his hand, she realized, the blood trickling from his still closed fist onto the table.

"Huh," she said to no one in particular, unsure of what _that_ had been about. And, admittedly, a little freaked at the demonstration of the strength in just one of those huge hands.

She went back to playing, aware that word was spreading around the bar that L'tor was done with her and that it was assumed that was the reason for the shattered cup. The tension level successfully dropped a bit and the noise level went back up as everyone stopped worrying about what was going on with the big motherfucker in the corner. Ben, the owner and bartender, was pissed off about the cost of the cup and Anya assured him she'd pay for it. Seemed like the least she could do, seeing as L'tor must have spent a fortune carting her ass all over the universe.

"Shoulda known you'd end up fucking one of those," Sammy said as she turned from the bar with her fresh pitcher. She froze, then slowly turned back.

"I'm surprised you haven't tried it yourself. Y'know...seeing as you fuck everything that's not nailed down, and some things that are," she said flatly.

His eyes flashed as she scored a direct hit and she smiled sweetly. She had mixed emotions about Sammy; he'd been her brother-in-law when her twin sister was still alive, and for the first few years things had been great. But then her sister had been diagnosed with the brain tumor...the operations...the wasting away. He didn't know that at the end there Chrissie had told Anya about his having hit her a few times; she'd sworn Anya to secrecy, ashamed. But his new habit of blatant philandering Anya couldn't take or accept quietly. While her sister slowly died Sammy had gone back to the bars and the clubs and the hooking up. There were rumors he had a couple kids wandering around but that he had nothing to do with them. It was a goddamn disrespectful thing to do while your wife was dying and your sister-in-law was spending every minute she could taking care of her.

"Haven't fucked you yet," Sammy pointed out, his voice low.

_And here we go again_, Anya thought, narrowing her eyes. Sammy was beyond good looking and he had the body of a greek god. He fancied himself quite the cocksman and it bothered him on some level that he hadn't scored with her yet. She got the feeling that as Chrissie's twin she was an ultimate score for Sammy, and on some level she was nervous of him since, in all the years since her sister's death, he hadn't lost his drive or focus to bed her. If anything, that desire had been sharpened. She figured it had something to do with the need to win her over and prove something to himself. Knowing he had the potential for violence, she did her best to keep her distance. Most especially when he was drinking.

"And you never will. Move on," she advised, looking him in the eye. He smiled handsomely but nastily.

"So you'll fuck a yautja but not me."

She tightened her grip on the pitcher in her hand and stepped closer, coming right up between his spread thighs as he sat on the bar stool. "He," she said flatly, "has more class in the tip of his little finger than you will ever have in your whole life. Shut your mouth, Sammy, and move on. I'm warning you." With that she turned and started away.

"Or else what?" he hollered, raising his voice loud enough for half the bar to hear it. She turned and gave him a venomous look, hardly able to believe his refusal to let it go and back down.

"You got time?" she responded, just as loudly. "It's a pretty long list."

Now that the altercation had gone public, there was some laughter. The animosity between them was well-known to both their circles of friends who'd watched it develop.

"Dance for us, bitch," Sammy said mockingly, motioning at her with a hand.

"That's right, peckerhead. Back the fuck off before you get what's been coming to you for years," she said back. "Can't have the whole bar see you get owned by a bitch." More laughter, louder this time. It was Sammy's turn to look venomous. "Take off, Sammy. Go hunt yourself some strange."

He snorted. "Look who's talking." His boys ooo'ed in appreciation of the shot and he high-fived the one next to him. His best bud and gym rat buddy, Gallagher. The steroid junkie.

She flinched, then looked at the back table where L'tor was still sitting. And watching. Looking back at Sammy she said, "Difference is, I don't do the hunting. I don't have to. You, on the other hand..." she shrugged as she dragged her gaze up his length. "Gotta range far and wide to find a girl who doesn't already know what a steaming piece of crap you are, don't you?"

Oops, too far. What she'd said had been the absolute truth but sometimes the truth was ugly and it hurt. There was a collective hiss of indrawn breath and Sammy came to his feet with his fists clenched, glaring at her. Just as he did that there was a rush from the back and Anya turned her head in time to see the ten-foot round table where L'tor was sitting flip over onto its edge before it crashed upside-down onto the floor, scattering the remains of his cup. The rush had been the sound of the youngBloods clearing their table and moving away.

Shocked, she stared at L'tor; he was on his feet, radiating menace. It took a second for her brain to realize that the table hadn't flipped over by accident...which could only mean he'd flipped it on purpose. And the behavior of the other yautja gathered by the patio exit warned her that something bad was about to happen.

"You got something coming to you, too," Sammy said and she turned in time to catch his fist across her face. He'd taken a step closer to reach her, just enough to land a glancing blow that turned her head and rattled her brain in her skull. She didn't fall but she did take a step back to avoid doing so, hanging onto the pitcher but spilling some of its contents in the process. There was a collective intake of breath and then an explosion of motion as she lifted a hand to her face, absolutely shocked into blank horror.

Ben scrambled over the bar. Sammy's friends cleared their stools as Mickey and the others rushed from the pool tables. Sammy, still holding his hand clenched into a fist, stared at Anya as if he was just as horrified as she was at what he'd done.

And from the back flipped over corner table came a bellow that froze everybody and rattled the glasses hanging over the bar and the bottles lined up neatly behind it. It was the shriek of a train whistle, the sound of a jet engine pushed full throttle for takeoff, the squeal of brakes, the baritone vibration of rolling thunder...and it was _deafening_.

In the sudden silence that followed, the youngBloods by the back door were the first to move, shoving themselves out and not looking back. Then L'tor was moving, holding himself rigid, the heavy tresses ringing his massive skull crested around his head like a crown. His steps were ponderous, ominous, his breathing deep and hoarse, his fists clenched and his arms bulging with tension. Three-hundred-some-odd pounds of pissed off, heading straight for Anya and Sammy.

"Yo, he's not gonna...?" Sammy said, suddenly recognizing threat and realizing it was aimed at him.

"You punched me," Anya whispered, finding her voice, then louder: "You fucking _punched_ me!" Rage pushed her horror aside and she heaved the pitcher of beer at him then followed it with a vicious kick aimed at his groin. The pitcher and the kick connected in the same instant, one to his face and the other to his crotch. He crashed down onto his back with a strangled sound, drenched in beer and balled up in a fetal position, then rolled on the floor in agony.

Gallagher caught Anya's arms as she bared her teeth and stepped forward to continue her attack, roughly jerking her around hard enough to pull her off her feet and spin her away. She squealed in rage and arched to try and break his hold, kicking to find the floor again, distantly aware that Mickey had come to her rescue and put a hand on Gallagher's shoulder to shove at him. As Gallagher let go to take a swing at Mickey, Anya gasped at the huge talon-tipped mottled hand that closed on the front of her shirt, then looked up in time to see Gallagher go sailing backwards halfway across the bar, hard enough to skid a few feet on his ass before he banged up against a pool table.

She looked up at L'tor in shock; now that he had ahold of her he wasn't looking at her. He turned from Gallagher to face the rest of Sammy's friends, backing them off with a look.

"Shit," Sammy was moaning, still rolling on the floor, curled up with his hands between his legs. "You fucking...oh, _shit_..."

His voice grabbed L'tor's attention and he issued a threatening, rattling growl before stepping forward. It snapped Anya into action and she moved to put herself in front of the huge yautja, struggling against the grip that tried to hold her off to the side, her sneakers squealing loudly across four feet of hardwood floor as his advance forced her back while she tried - and failed - to hold him off.

"Not your problem!" she barked, still pissed off and fighting mad but instinctively aware that she couldn't let L'tor touch Sammy or there would be a bloodbath. She didn't know why he'd chosen to involve himself; maybe he felt bad for her or something. Maybe it was his last good deed for her before he took off. It didn't matter; she couldn't let him put himself in the middle of this disagreement. Especially not when it looked like she was actually _winning_ a physical battle between herself and fucking Sammy Wirth.

L'tor finally paused and looked at her with a low rumble.

"I got this," she assured him. "It's all good." He rumbled again and let go of her as she patted his hand and smiled. "Thanks. BRB."

She turned and faced Sammy, circling around him to crouch by his head then rap her knuckles hard against his skull a few times. "Hey stupid," she said cheerfully. "You awake in there?"

"Fuck...you..." Sammy moaned. He had a nice gash across his forehead that was bleeding pretty good. She hoped he got a beer infection. And that it left a hideous scar.

"Listen stoop, we're gonna call it quits now, right? You don't talk to me, I don't talk to you. Real civil-like." He groaned in answer. "I can't believe you went and fucking punched me, Sammy. I mean really. The back and forth bullshit was one thing, but _this_?" she asked, motioning at her aching face.

"Unacceptable," L'tor rumbled, making everyone look at him.

"_Exactly_," Anya agreed. She rapped Sammy smartly on the top of his head again. "You listening? You hear me?"

"I hear you," he said, his jaw clenched.

"Good," she said brightly. "Now collect your shattered manhood and take your shit someplace else. And don't forget to pick up the sack of 'roids laying next to the pool table before you leave," she added, referring to Gallagher. Mickey snorted.

"You stay outta my bar, ya hear me?" Ben demanded. Passing a glance at Sammy's friends he added, "Alla ya. I don't need this kinda shit here. Punching women and getting the yautja all stirred up. It's a fucking public bar for chrissakes! You wanna put me outta business?"

Anya smirked and stood, then caught one of Sammy's good looking friend's eyes. Didn't know this one's name but she'd seen him in Sammy's company often enough. "Help him out, brah," she told him, motioning at Sammy. He moved delicately around L'tor to crouch beside Sammy and scoop his arms under his shoulders to sit him up.

"Oh you fuckin..." Sammy groaned.

Anya t'sked at him, though her head was starting to pound and she was done with the situation. "It's enough, Sammy. Like I said before, move on. You fuckin hauled off and punched me in the _face_, bitch. I should call the cops."

"You should," Kiki agreed.

"Jesus Aich Christ," Ben said, throwing up his hands and turning back for the bar. "Great. Call the fuckin cops, have a report written up. There goes my livelihood. Stupid asshole." He banged the hinged section of bar up and slammed it down, then bashed his way through the kitchen door.

"See, now you're lucky. I won't call the cops because it'll freak Benny out. However, next time I see you I will not hesitate to shove the biggest thing I can find as far as I can up your ass," Anya said flatly. L'tor trilled and crossed his massively muscled arms, the effect awesome on such a huge humanoid.

"He might like it," Mickey said snidely. "I can't believe he punched you either, dude. Hitting a girl...way not cool, man."

Anya smirked. Sammy's secret was out now and he'd been the one at fault for it. Girl punching asshat. He didn't count on the fact that Anya wasn't Chrissie and there was no way in hell she was going to stand for anyone hitting her. No cowering and crying for her; if L'tor hadn't intervened she would have been right in the middle of the brawl.

The kitchen door banged open and Ben roared, "_Get 'im outta here_!" before slamming back inside.

"Baseball bat's next, dude," Mickey warned, knowing Ben kept a Louisville Slugger behind the bar.

"Batter up," Anya added, giving Sammy's friend a jerk of her head. "Man's got a temper on him and a limited amount of patience." It got him moving and he helped Sammy to his feet, both of them grunting. Two of the others made their way over to Gallagher and got him up before they shuffled en-mass to the front door that Kiki had so kindly held open for them. When they left she slammed it shut and dusted off her hands.

"You okay, dude?" Mickey asked and reached to push her hand from her face so he could see the damage.

L'tor barked, a harsh, aggressive sound, unfolding his arms and stepping forward to shove Mickey back roughly a few feet.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Anya said, horrified. "Friend'a mine, remember?"

In answer L'tor growled and reached out with the hand he'd used to shove Mickey to close it around her throat. It was so big that Anya was forced to lift her chin.

"Whoah, dude," Mickey said, stepping forward.

"It's okay, Mick. He won't hurt me," Anya said, her voice a little tight and strained. She put a hand up in Mickey's direction to ward him off and keep him back. "Do you mind? Windpipe," she grunted, speaking to L'tor.

It was all he needed to hear: that she knew he wouldn't hurt her. Even as he stood there growling angrily with his hand wrapped around her neck, so tiny and delicate he could only fit three fingers around it. So whatever followed, she trusted him and knew he wouldn't harm her. He slid his hand around to clamp onto the back of her neck and snarled at the male again, one last warning and challenge. The male put up his hands, palms facing out, and backed another step. L'tor passed a defiant glance around to see if anyone else felt like objecting to his claim and saw them all staring. Even Anya was standing docilely, waiting.

Satisfied he would have no trouble, he turned and tugged her toward the patio door, checking his stride as she stumbled.

"What're you-" she started to ask but he cut her off with a growl and she went quiet and moved with him. Once outside, though, she reached up and grabbed at his fingers, trying to pull him loose. He took a look around and saw no sign of the youngBloods or anyone else, so it was safe to let her go. "What the _hell_?" she demanded when he did, stepping away.

Ah, the _question_. The one that meant everything and nothing. And clearly she had drawn the same conclusion he had, that it was best for them to engage in this final confrontation without witnesses.

"Mate," he said simply, calling her by her new title.

"Wha-?" she asked, playing at being puzzled. Refusing to submit. It made him draw in a deep, slow, rattling breath in pleasure. She shook her head. "No, no, see, that was nice what you did back there, helping me out and all -" she motioned back to the bar's door, "- but I seem to remember that this thing between us here was over, right?"

Oh really? At some point he must have fallen asleep because he didn't recall that. And _nice_? If she hadn't asked him to stand down he would have willingly killed every ooman in the bar for her, just to impress her. She really was insisting on being difficult. In answer to her query he chuckled, a rhythmic rumble that made her take another step back.

"It's not funny," she said flatly.

He allowed his humor to fade and held up his hand palm up, motioning with two fingers. "Come."

"Where?" she asked suspiciously.

"Mate," he said again, then repeated the motion. He was getting tired of the discussion. Apparently, if he let her, she would stand out here talking to him until she died of old age.

"Er...no."

So be it. He lowered his hand and stepped toward her and she backed away hastily. When he took the next step she bolted, vaulting the low fence around the patio and running into the night. She was initiating a chase and a hunt to test his worth and kick off their pairing? Pauking_ excellent_. He bellowed after her, taking a deep breath to announce his acceptance as loud and hard as he could, watching his breath steam in the cool evening air as he let it out, closing his fists and raising his chin to lengthen his throat, adding a rattling vibrato at the end. Any yautja within miles would hear that and know to keep their distance tonight, or risk conflict.

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><p>Anya ran like hell. She heard L'tor's roar, fuck, half the town had to have heard it. She had no idea what the hell his deal was but she had the overwhelming need to get as far away from him as fast as she could. He'd been charged up all night and the fight in the bar must have tripped a switch or something, set him off. Could be that he just felt like he had to protect her, like she'd thought before. Maybe he thought it had been his fault somehow. They were, after all, honorable beings. Stupid Sammy might have made L'tor feel that he had to honor his original intentions for her.<p>

She wanted to go home, lock her damn doors, shut off her phone and see the damage that Sammy's fucking punch had inflicted, then take a shower and hide in her bed. It was enough today, enough of everything. A good hard run would help blow off some of this stress so she could calm the hell down and hopefully relax.

It took her a half hour to get home; she'd walked the last ten minutes to cool down. Now that she was alone with her thoughts, now that she'd blown off her rage, she was aware that she needed a good cry. Her sister's husband had been a thorn in Anya's side for years but tonight just plain took the cake. She simply could _not_ believe he'd punched her. It had even been deliberate enough to be a glancing blow, since she was sure that Sammy was capable of knocking her teeth out, breaking her nose or her jaw, or just plain putting her lights out.

Already crying as she keyed her lock, she almost missed the fact that the skulls were gone. Pausing, she wiped her eyes and looked. Nope, they were definitely gone, leaving her crushed azaleas behind. For some reason it made her feel unprotected somehow. Like they'd made her house feel safer, more secure. God, she missed them already? She was really feeling blue.

She let herself inside and locked the door behind her, tossing her keys in the dish she kept by the door for just that purpose. First things first; to the bathroom to see what she was looking like. She pounded up the stairs, missing her damned skylight, then headed down the hallway to her master bathroom. She closed her bedroom door, then closed herself inside her bathroom, flicking on the light and leaning close to the mirror over the sink.

"What a fuckin mess," she sighed, her lips barely moving. Sure, it had been a glancing blow, but it had left one hell of a bruise. She pushed her hair back and turned her face to the side. You could clearly make out where Sammy's knuckles had first hit into her, leaving their imprint behind, then the smear of bruising from where the force of the punch had turned her head aside.

What was it lately with males trying to destroy her face? she wondered, then hung her head and started to cry. The sound was soft at first, shaky breathing and running tears, but she gave herself permission, a rare thing. She was alone and able to let it out so she did, holding the sides of the sink and squeezing her eyes shut as she keened. It was like hearing it made it more heart-rending, more sorrowful, like the action fed off itself and amplified on its own, and she started bawling.

Everything was a fuckin mess in her life right now. All turned upside-down, and she didn't know where to go from here, what to do. Fuckin' yautja courtship bullshit. She'd had to take a lot of time off from her job to allow herself the ability to do her passive-aggressive avoidance thing, then to go planet-hopping. Now she had to hope she still had a job, and if she did, she had to go back to it and clean up whatever state of mess it was in. If not she had to bust her ass to find a new job before her savings dried up. She had to get her roof fixed; currently there was plywood and a tarp on it to keep out the elements and the bugs. It was hell on her air-conditioning bill.

Meanwhile her face looked like a Picasso painting thanks to Chrissie's husband, who Anya would spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder for. Him and his thugs. And, top it off, she was crying anew at the thought and memory of Chrissie, and at her anger at her sister for having had such a douche for a husband. It was all coming down on her like a ton of bricks, a house of cards, and that, too, frustrated her and made her cry.

A crashing boom from downstairs made her raise her face and meet her eyes in the mirror. What the hell was that?

A rattling multi-tonal growl answered her. Not so loud as the roaring sound she'd heard it in the bar, or the tremendous one she'd heard when she'd run from L'tor on the patio. Maybe it wasn't him, she thought with a wash of fear. Maybe it was a new one, a different one.

She waited in her bathroom, her tears done as she held herself still and listened. Her breathing was still shaky though, and she drew in deep breaths to get past it and calm herself down. There was no other sound, and she began to convince herself she hadn't heard what she thought she had. Something was in her house; the time for pity parties was over.

Unable to stand it any longer, Anya opened her bathroom door and crept out into her bedroom. It was still silent downstairs and she had the bad feeling that Sammy was here to exact his revenge, maybe with Gallagher and prettyboy in tow as backup. She was on her home turf, literally. It would be stupid to let them familiarize themselves with her house and allow them to take away her home field advantage. She had to confront them now or she would ruin her chances of escaping this without a beating.

With that thought in mind she went to her bed and pulled the thirty eight from the top drawer of her nighttable. She double-checked the load; no point in keeping a handgun in your nightstand for defense if it wasn't loaded, but it never hurt to check. She wiped her eyes again and steeled herself for confrontation, then jerked her bedroom door open and ran down the stairs with it held out, hollering, "Get the hell out of my house!" as she did.

L'tor was standing in her living room, his massive chest heaving. He took one look at her with the gun in her hand and let loose a long, deep growl that vibrated inside her as he lowered himself into a crouch.

"What the hell are you doin' here?" she asked, admittedly shocked and mystified. She stopped on her landing and raised the gun to the plywood where her skylight used to be, staring at him.

He growled again, shifting on his feet in a stealthy, predatory way that felt..._off_ to her somehow. Dangerous. Her alarms were ringing but she hadn't been kidding when she'd told Mickey that she believed L'tor wouldn't hurt her. Behind him her front door was knocked off its top hinges and listing inside her living room. Looked like he'd come through it like a freight train.

Looking at him again she tentatively asked, "L'tor?" then yelped when he leapt at her. He landed right in front of her and shoved her back against the wall, pinning her gun hand hard against it. He squeezed her wrist hard enough to make her cry out and open her hand to drop the gun, wincing when it thumped heavily against the carpet somewhere near her feet. With the kind of day she'd been having it wouldn't have surprised her to have the damn thing shoot her in the foot.

Seeing that he'd disarmed her L'tor released her and swept the gun off the landing with his foot. This time, as it bounced down the steps it discharged, the sound loud as hell. She yelped again and ducked reflexively, putting her hands on her head, not sure where the muzzle had been pointing when it had fired. Stupid reaction, considering the fact that her hands weren't going to stop a bullet fired from a thirty-eight at her head.

L'tor issued another vibrating growl and stepped back from her, spreading his arms like he was inviting her to bring it on. Even his mandibles were wide spread as he growled low and long at her. She unfolded, staring. She'd never seen this side of him before; he'd always been deferential to her. Accommodating, even. Now he wanted to rip her lungs out? It didn't make sense.

He ticked rapidly, a trickling tapping sound, then he let loose a bellowing grunt, feinting at her and making her flinch and smack back against the wall behind her. The heat pouring off him was incredible and her nose was filled with that hoppy scent, stronger now than she'd ever smelt it.

"_What_?" she demanded. "What'd I do now?"

"Mate," he purred, slowly easing himself into his usual proud posture and looking down at her, his dreadlocks flared.

"Okay. _This_," she said, holding up her finger and motioning rapidly in a vague all-over motion, "is fucking nuts. You got that? _Nuts_," she said emphatically.

"Nuts," he echoed, then trilled.

"Exactly. Ex-_fuckin_-actly," she said tightly through clenched teeth. "It's enough, okay? I've had a shitty-ass day and it's enough already. _I_," she pointed to herself, "am going upstairs to shower, then _I_-" she motioned at herself emphatically again, "am going to bed. Got that?"

He stared at her, waiting.

"Right-o. Fix the fuckin door on your way out, wouldya?"

With that she spun herself back to face the steps heading up and mounted the first stair. Her spine was rigid as she stamped up, her chin lifted high and her eyes fixed on the top step. She heard the low growl behind her and completely ignored it in favor of reaching the second floor and walking herself to her bedroom. Without hesitating she marched straight to her bathroom on autopilot, stripping off her clothes as she went and dropping them on the floor. She left the bathroom door open and climbed into the shower, turning the water on and putting herself under the spray. She yelped and cursed when it hit her face then she turned her back to it and let it pound her scalp. _Think nothing_, she told herself over and over like a mantra. If she let herself think she was going to start crying again.


	9. Chapter 9

Thank you for your feedback - I love to read your reviews! I've read other author's notes where they say that reviews are their drug, and I have to agree; thank you, thank you, thank you! And since your honored story-teller isn't quite 40 yet, either, this story is not appropriate for any of us!

Disclaimer: last time I checked, I didn't have a yautja locked in my closet. It's a shame, really, because I have to figure something like that would give me some sort of credibility or ownership rights. While I go double-check my closets, enjoy...

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><p>The shower curtain was abruptly ripped back and Anya jumped, almost wiping out on the slippery surface of the tub under her feet. L'tor was standing there, a low growl trickling from him as he stared down at her.<p>

"Do you mind?" she asked bluntly, shocked to pieces once again.

He wasn't looking at her, though. He was looking at her body, his fierce gaze wandering slowly down her length, then just as slowly back up. When he looked into her eyes he let out a softer, lower growl, then let go of the shower curtain and reached for her face. Staring, she stood her ground and let him, feeling the rough slide of his big fingers under her chin as he lifted and turned it to better see the bruise, closing her hanging-open mouth as he did. She winced as he lightly passed his thumb across her skin, seeing the way his shoulders bunched and his chest swelled. It gave her the sense that what he was seeing made him angry, made him tense up.

"It's okay," she said quietly, deflating a bit because of his sudden gentleness. "It'll heal."

He growled, the sound stronger this time, and closed his hand lightly around her throat again. His hold was looser, the weight of his hand resting on her collarbones, his fingers gently curling around her neck but not gripping like they had the last time he'd done this, an hour ago.

"He struck you."

Anya blinked, unable to shake the knowledge that she was standing there wet and naked with the shower beating on her bare back while a yautja held her by the throat. "He's an asshole."

There was a low, rolling chuckle. "You did well."

She dared a tentative smile. "I kicked his fuckin ass," she corrected him.

L'tor purred, a deep baritone sound of pleasure as his hand shifted around her throat so he could pass his thumb over her uninjured cheek in a gentle caress. "With me you come."

She stiffened, the smile fleeing. "Where?"

"With me," he repeated. _Where_ didn't matter. She would go where he went.

Not very informative. "Why?" she asked.

The purr shifted into a lower register, sounding suspiciously more like a growl now. "I choose you."

She didn't think she could be more shocked; she'd been wrong. "No, wait. I thought-"

"An'eya," he rumbled, cutting her off.

She wanted to say something smart and sassy, something like, _That's my name, don't wear it out_. Thing was, she didn't think he was joking about this, and while he seemed tolerant of her sense of humor she didn't think he would appreciate her trying to make light of this.

His gaze left her face to take a leisurely stroll down her length again and she had the sense that he was drinking in the details. It made her blush furiously and shift her feet. She had a nice body, toned and strong to the point of definition in the muscles of her abdomen, her arms and her legs. It wasn't embarrassment of her nudity that had her uncomfortable; it was the undisguised hunger she could see in L'tor's bright gaze, in the slow, deliberate movement of his head as he looked her over. He was _attracted_ to her, she realized, and he liked what he was seeing.

His free hand came up and closed on her breast, making her suck in her stomach and try to pull back. But he was still holding her securely by her throat, and when he felt her try to pull away he growled as his fingers tightened in warning.

"Hey, hey, the goods, remember?" Anya said, slightly choked and starting to panic. "Not polite."

He rumbled. "Not try be polite," he informed her, his big hand moving, twisting to slide over her skin so her could cup her breast in his fingers. He lifted it, feeling its warmth and softness, the weight of it; no wonder she wore the bindings to support them. This was a milk gland that was made to be suckled, that was begging to be put to good use. His pups would be fat and healthy and strong when they were ready to be weaned. And when they were, he would gorge himself on her milk.

He let go of her breast and ran the backs of his fingers down her abdomen, seeing the slash on his palm and distantly remembering being cut by a shard of the broken cup. He should clean and bind it. Even now the flowing water was softening the scab that was attempting to form, making it bleed again. But the sight of his blood washing down her bare flesh was doing something to him. Exciting him. He paused, staring, watching its path to the small patch of light colored fur at the juncture of her closed legs, then down her thighs.

"You're bleeding," she said quietly and he grunted, unable to tear his attention off the visual. Her hands came up and took hold of his, turning and moving it so she could see the slash. "That's nasty," she told him, softly moving her thumbs across the wound on his huge palm. He blinked. Now his blood was on her small hands, and as she continued to study him while he stared, it flowed with the bathwater down her forearms to drip off her elbows, diluted but still bright.

His heart started to pound harder and he pulled his hand from her grasp and caressed her belly, feeling the muscles under his hand tighten and clench as he left a broad smear of bright green on her skin. The pain only sharpened his excitement, heightening it. He was no stranger to seeing his own _thwei_, but something about seeing it on the female he wanted to make his mate was having a powerful affect on him. Blood was life and power; yautja believed it held mystical properties, perhaps the soul itself. Yautja blood on ooman flesh; had anyone ever seen such a thing before?

He looked at her as it suddenly occurred to him that he didn't want to wait any longer to stake his claim on her body. And if her behavior was any indication, she was ready and willing to be taken. Had she not left a clear trail leading to her location, made of the clothing she'd shed on her way to this washroom? He'd followed it only to find her already bared for him, cleaning her body in preparation.

With the hand on her throat he pushed her under the hot spray to rinse her again, making her sputter and bring her hands up to clutch at the fingers around her neck. He tugged her out and let go, fumbling at the metal control knobs to the water, feeling it get hotter then colder before finally turning it off. Anya had made her way out of the washroom before the flow became scalding; when he figured out how to shut it off and turned she was standing behind him, wrapped in a fur and staring at him.

_Good female_, he thought, and purred to her to let her know he was pleased. When he advanced a step she hastened back two, causing his purr to deepen to a growl as he clenched his fists. Hot and cold like the flow of water in her washroom. The testing and teasing were becoming unbearable.

She stood her ground now and he shifted, adjusting his stance and taking a moment to study the room. There were structures he supposed were furniture, storage of some sort. And the sleeping pallet, large enough to accommodate him and hopefully sturdy enough for what he had in mind.

He stepped away from her to put her at ease, lifting his left forearm to remove the large bracer that covered it from wrist almost to elbow. It housed, among other things, his personal computer that allowed him to communicate with others, to be contacted, and to communicate with his ships. He unlatched it and slid it off, then went to the bracer on his right forearm. This one contained an arsenal of small weaponry and his favorites, the retractable wrist blades. Both gauntlets were a hardened, armored alloy called _dlex_ by his kind, that was, as far as he knew, indestructible. Weapons in themselves, really, and he'd used them as such, swinging a forearm to block the attack of a weapon or to batter an enemy.

But not appropriate garb for the business of mating. They were hard and heavy with sharp edges that could easily slice through soft pale flesh. She was bare and unarmed and it was only fair that he come to her the same way. That, and since they covered so much of his arms they would be in the way of his ability to feel Anya, to touch all of his skin to hers and feel her softness.

After removing the belt that contained his medical kit and a few other items, he placed it all on a large piece of furniture then turned to face her again, running his hands along his forearms and flexing his wrists. Except for his loincloth, the rank rings in his hair and the pads he wore to protect the soles of his feet he was as naked as the day of his pupping. And speaking of pups...

"What're you doing?" Anya asked suspiciously, and backed yet another step. It put her near to the door he'd closed when he'd entered the room and spotted the trail of clothing that led to the door on the far side of it, her washroom. He growled harshly at her in warning, letting her know that he could see what she was up to and that to go ahead and try it would invite his wrath. It was enough with her defiance now. He'd been patient and gentle with her but the time had come for taming.

He lifted his right hand, the one that had been cut, holding it out and palm-up, motioning with his fingers in wordless order for her to come to him. She opened her mouth as if to say something and he issued a hard, growling bark that made her close her mouth. _You want to fight_? he thought. _To resist? Then come here and do it. But no more talking._

She seemed to pause to consider, then she finally started toward him. As she came closer he felt himself respond, drawing in a deep breath to widen his chest, shifting his posture to stand a little more upright as the hairs on his head crowned. Posing for her almost, as he reacted to her presence and her scent. Striking a startling image of masculine perfection, barely contained aggression, unwavering alertness and tense anticipation. He was confidant. He was dominant. And he was prepared to prove it to her.

She paused just out of reach of his outstretched hand and he rumbled. Still defying. But as male it was his place to take the initiative and perhaps she understood that. Had she come right into him he wouldn't have thought less of her, but that she was putting it to him to take control made him think more of her.

Still holding out his hand he slowly and stiffly stepped closer, watching her face. She was giving him every indication of fear, of intent to resist, in her rigid posture, her wide eyes, her increased heart rate and her shallow breathing. He stepped again, bringing himself well within reach of her and continuing to stare her down, then he lowered his hand to the fur she was still clutching around her. He pulled and she resisted, clamping her hands more tightly on it.

Easing back on the pressure he was using, L'tor considered his options, almost hearing his Master's voice in his head commanding him to rip the fake fur off her body. But he was familiar with what her fear did to her and he debated if he wanted to incite it any further. Fear had made her more, not less, defiant. Fear made her angry. Fear made her quick and aggressive. It was fear that caused her to pick up a branch and kill a p'ryla-to with a single blow, that caused her to bolt and run for miles. He wasn't afraid of her fear or what it was capable of making her do; it was more that he didn't _want_ her to be afraid and defiant and resistant. Not of him. Not of this.

He was a warrior. The strong did not need to use strength or cruelty to prove their dominance and overpower the weak. Not unless they intended to punish or inflict harm or force complete submission. He wanted her submissive, yes, but he didn't want to put out the fire that burned so strongly in her, that had attracted his attention in the first place.

He had studied ooman anatomy and cultures as a student, learning their strengths and weaknesses, their societal and familial structures, their languages and their behaviors. More recently he'd studied up on the courtship and breeding of ooman females, their biological responses and processes. While they came into season with every new moon - provided they weren't gravid - they were capable of mating at any time, given the proper enticements. The enticements were necessary to provoke a physical reaction that would make them receptive to mating. To use force or cause her to fear would not provoke the proper reaction or make her receptive and he knew it.

He was considering his next step, leaving his hand resting lightly on her shoulder to keep her from moving away, when Anya shifted nervously on her feet and adjusted her grip on the towel wrapped around her.

"I don't _mph_-" she started to object, cut off as he muzzled her with his other hand. This, he'd come to learn, was her primary form of resistance. _Talking_. And it worked well for her, since she was capable of putting up a good argument. She could not best him in a physical confrontation and when he cut off her ability to speak and quieted her he felt her submit and go still under his hand.

The delay, he realized, was costing him, and now that he had her back under control he needed to keep moving forward before she objected again. The purr rumbled up from his chest, reminding him what he should have known: to reassure her. He let it go, let it build and fill the small room, let it find its rhythm and tone, the one that would best resonate with the female in his hands. Still holding his hand wrapped gently around her mouth, keeping his fingers below the bruise, he tugged again at the fake fur, repeating the gesture pointedly. Still staring at him, she relaxed her grip and let it go. He slid it slowly from her, pulling it across her shoulders and sliding it along her skin until, once again, she stood naked before him.

He swung his hand away and dropped the damp wrap on the floor, then dared to release her mouth. As if knowing better now, Anya kept quiet and just stared at him, mesmerized by the steady baritone rumbling coming from him. It calmed and soothed, touching every part of her, projecting warmth and reassurance from that massive chest.

L'tor stepped quietly, moving slowly around her without touching her, feasting his eyes on every inch of her and heightening his lust and anticipation. Small and smooth and well shaped, her skin gleaming with health, her body holding still for his inspection. He clenched his fists, squeezing more blood from his right palm onto the floor, staining her carpet with bright electric green. When he was done it would look, he thought distantly, like there had been a battle in this room and that Anya had fought back hard enough to draw and scatter his blood.

He sank into a crouch behind her and when she huffed and started to turn he closed his hands on her waist, holding her still. The position brought him to her height and framed her body between his thick, muscular thighs. The contrast between their skin was startling: her tawny paleness against his bold green-bluff-brown-black mottling. She felt small and fragile between his hands as he smoothed them up her flanks in a slow caress, feeling her ribs and the tension in her body.

His purr intensified with pleasure as finally he felt her soft, smooth texture and warmth. His hands slid up to her shoulders, under her hair, then down her back and over her rump, along the backs of her thighs. He repeated the slow caress several times, feeling her tension subside as he touched her gently, spreading his greater heat over her skin, letting it soothe her along with his purr.

He'd read the collective wisdom of his race regarding ooman females; while even when considered prey animals they, like all females of all races, were respected and generally left unhunted by the yautja that hunted their kind. They bred warriors but generally they weren't warriors. They were smaller and weaker than the males, considered harmless and defenseless. This female had apparently not read the same reports he had, or else, being Anya, she was stubbornly refusing to comply with what was considered normal and average.

She was weaker than him but she was not weak. The body beneath his hands was firm and strong and toned. More than once she'd demonstrated her strength for him, her endurance, her quick reflexes and her confidence in her ability to stand her ground and defend herself. Her fitness pleased him; as a rule ooman females were considered soft and prone to fatten up easily, their bodies geared toward and built for the hard work of gestating young. Females taken by yautja were encouraged to build up their fat reserves. It was a point of pride for many to have a robust female, to show off your ability to provide for her, to keep her milk thick and rich.

Anya let out a quiet breath, standing docilely as L'tor caressed her back. It felt good, she had to admit. Weird, but good. And the purring...she _loved_ the purring. It filled her ears and the room, making something inside her thrum in time. It was soothing. Relaxing. Scattering her thoughts and assuring her that whatever the hell he was up to, it wasn't aggressive. She'd never heard the sound directed at what he was hunting, or at the others of his kind. It wasn't a sound he'd made in the bar, or when he took her planet-hopping. The only other time she'd heard this steady rumble was when she was alone with him on his ship...first, that time after he'd run into his former Master and sent her fleeing in terror. After finding her and returning her to his ship he'd woken her up with this persistent thrumming as he touched her. But not quite the way he was touching her now.

"What are you doing?" she asked quietly. It was hard to think with that relentless purring, but the weird way he was behaving made her feel like she had to ask.

"I am hungry." This was said in a low, deep voice that was right over the purr somehow. He could both speak and purr at the same time, she realized.

"I...maybe I have a steak in the freezer..." she said, not moving. His huge hands were sliding over her hips and up her belly, lifting both her breasts and cradling them.

"Not for food." Those big thumbs slid over her nipples, making her draw in a sharp, short breath at the sensation. He did it again, slower this time. Then again, pausing to leave the pads of his thumbs over them, branding her with fire that seeped inside her. God, he was blazing hot.

"For me?" she whispered, letting out her breath.

"Yes," he said simply.

She opened her eyes and stared across the bedroom. So the courtship wasn't over. Her head spun a bit, struggling to resist the hypnotic purr as she tried to piece together what had happened and what was going on. This would mean he was _on the rut_, to use Ivy's phraseology. Ready to mate, in other words. And he'd chosen her.

The realization brought with it the oddest sense of relief. Who gave a fuck about the ripped-out skylight and the bullet hole in her kitchen now? Who cared about Sammy, about her job? These were things that she wouldn't have to worry about anymore. The thumbs on her nipples began the slightest of movements and she arched and drew in a deep breath in reaction, putting her hands on the huge wrists below her breasts reflexively, as if to move them. But when she closed her hands around those wrists, so big her fingers and thumbs didn't meet, she stilled and didn't push him away.

He rumbled quietly behind her, still doing the maddening movements of his thumbs over her nipples, aware of her hesitation and doing nothing to encourage it. He could feel the small fleshy buds swell and harden and he gently pulled her back toward his chest. "An'sha'i," he murmured, willing her to tame, to submit. She resisted a moment then relented and leaned against him, letting out a small breath as her bare back made contact with his bare chest. The contact sent a ripple through him and intensified his purr as she slowly submitted and relaxed her weight against him.

He moved his hands on her breasts and left off with toying with her nipples for the moment, sensing that too much of a good thing was still too much. He didn't want to desensitize her anymore than he wanted to make her too sensitive. He cupped, lifted, then gently lowered her milk glands before slowly sliding his flattened hands down her abdomen, continuing to pull her closer and tighter against him. Her breathing quickened as he let his right hand drift lower, pausing to rest it over the juncture between her thighs and feeling her heat.

"You are hungry too," he said quietly.

Anya licked her lips, well aware of where his hand was. "Yes," she admitted. "But it's been a long time. Years. And you...you're _huge_." If each of his fingers were easily twice the width of one of hers, what would that mean for his cock? It made her shiver nervously to even consider the thought.

He rumbled, as pleased by the news that she hadn't mated in a long time as he was by the lack of any refusal or objection, then he folded his middle finger inward, touching the length of it against her sex. She huffed but stayed still, making no attempt to pull away. "I will be gentle," he assured her. "Unless you wish...?" he trilled inquisitively. _Otherwise_, he'd wanted to say but couldn't think of the word. He would take her any way she wished to be taken; pleasure was pleasure and either slow and gentle or aggressive and fast would end in the same result for him: he would have his release and mate her. But females were more difficult to please than males and he would do whatever she required.

Yet another paradigm shift, he realized. He'd never cared for a female's pleasure before. He'd always taken his own without regard for anything other than taking care not to permanently damage or disable the female he was breeding. It was up to them to respond as they would, either clenched in fear or giving in and submitting to what he wanted willingly. It didn't matter to him either way, as long as he achieved the release he was seeking.

_Those hands...my god, those hands_, she thought, and shivered. They were calloused, rough, hot and huge, talon-tipped and capable of crushing a cup that the weight of her car couldn't break. And they were smoothing over her skin in a light but firm caress that was slowly working her up to her toes. These hands were capable of working their way under the lip of the skylight on her roof and holding on while those massive arms and shoulders tore it free. Capable of driving a spear straight through and out the other side of an animal with a hide three inches thick. They were weapons. _Lethal_. Hell, the whole package was lethal: a massive, powerful, aggressive being made even more deadly by years of training followed by years of active experience in hunting and killing. And she was wrapped in his embrace and trembling, but not in fear, as he touched her.

She let out a shaky breath as the finger between her legs began to rock, sliding forward and back with slow, deliberate movements. The purr throbbed through that massive chest pressed against her back, though the thick padding of muscle minimized its vibration and made it more sound than sensation. It was taking on a life of its own in her mind, creating a haze of warmth and pleasure as she tuned into it and the feeling of being touched and nothing else. She released her hold on his wrists and slid her hands back along his forearms, feeling the corded strength, following them by touch to the bends of his elbows and finding that they were resting on top of his huge tree-trunk thick thighs.

_Power_. That's all she could think of as she let her hands drift, daring for the first time to touch. Her fingertips slid outward and forward along the tops of his thighs to his knees wide-spread on either side of her body. The heat he generated was insane, like he was a powerful high performance engine that even radiated energy at an idle. Her hands flattened against the insides of his thighs as she slowly pulled them back, daring to and wanting to feel more than just what her fingertips could tell her. Brawny muscles bulged hard against his skin, feeling like stone sculpture baking under a burning desert sun beneath her touch.

Wanting to feel more, Anya slid her hands forward toward his knees again, finding by touch strange inconsistencies in the huge thighs that bookended her. She looked down as she touched, momentarily startled by the coloration of the being that was touching her and that she was touching. The finger between her legs paused as she stilled and stared, as reality came rushing back and battled with sensation for dominance in her mind. The comparison of her hands on those thighs momentarily brought her back to her senses.

Her hand moved, and the white tip of her nail traced the outline of a dark patch of color, then found the scar she'd noticed before by touch. She followed it with her fingers, a long slash that traveled from inner thigh above the knee up to the front and rising mid thigh. She found where it had been deepest, where the edges of the wound had been puckered and remained ridged even now despite having healed. It must, she couldn't help but think, have been horrific, deep enough to cut into muscle and no doubt potentially crippling and possibly even fatal.

Now that she'd found it, she noticed more. Pocks and tears and slashes and cuts, all long healed but leaving their marks behind. The scarring was camouflaged by his coloring, not something that was blatantly obvious like it would be on a lighter skinned human's body. She'd already recognized that in comparison her skin was softer, thinner, more sensitive and delicate than his. She had scars from papercuts and skinned knees, and permanent marks from holding a Fourth of July sparkler that had been red-hot when she'd been a kid. She didn't suppose those kinds of things would have injured this body, much less have left a lifelong mark behind.

_Was this...is this a bullet hole_? she thought, finding a puckered divot on the front of his left thigh that looked suspiciously familiar. She stared, sinking the tip of her finger into the indentation and murmuring, "Forty five cal." Depending on how close the shooter was, a bullet like this had the potential to penetrate the leg or lodge in the bone. But on this monster thigh it had penetrated the skin and was stopped by the muscle, leaving a half-inch dent behind. It was an old wound and had long since healed, apparently without surgical scarring or infection. No wonder he hadn't been intimidated by her pointing a thirty-eight at him; instead of frightening him it had enraged him. Being shot must have the same effect on him as being stung by a bee had on her.

His legs were a topographical map of wounds left behind by an untold number of battles and struggles and hunts and conflicts, making her aware that he was no stranger to pain and injury. These were things that had somehow gotten past his guard enough to inflict damage, whether by surprise or cunning or brute strength or dumb luck on the part of the attacker. It made her wonder if he could possibly be killed, if there was anything in the universe that could frighten him. This was a being amply capable of taking care of himself and she didn't doubt that his response to these injuries had resulted in the demise of those that had inflicted them. And she'd been worried about the cut on his hand. Kinda funny actually, now that she thought about it.

L'tor held still, aware that she was studying his scars, wondering if she could possibly comprehend what she was seeing. He was as proud of them as he was of his trophies, his possessions and his rank because they were all one and the same. Evidence that although he was born a member of a proud warrior race he had been diligent about seeking his own glory when and where he could, working to better his rank and station. Had she been a female of his species she would probably be titillated by what she was seeing, recognizing his ferocity and drive and fearlessness in those scars. They bore mute testimony to his strength and prowess, to his ability to protect, defend and provide.

"An'sha'i, An'eya," a quiet voice said over the throbbing that still filled her ears. It was like a distant whisper that was nearly buried but she heard it. _On-sha-AYE, An-EE-ya_. She didn't know what it meant but it sounded soothing and almost musical, and she mulled it over while she stared at her right hand and the hard, mottled flesh of the huge thigh it was resting on.

"What does that mean?" she asked the air, the room, the whispering voice in her head, her voice small.

There was a rumble that overlaid the purr, intertwining with it before fading out. "_Submit,_" the voice said, harder.

She smiled slowly, finally blinking out of her stare though still hypnotized by the purr and the heat and amazed at what she was seeing and feeling. "Make me," she whispered.

The rumble came again, vibrating against her spine, building to rattle her brain in her skull. She pressed against the hard heat at her back, aware that he didn't even shift his balance as she did. So strong. So _solid_. The growl cut off suddenly as L'tor said, "As you wish."

He rose suddenly, smoothly, dragging the length of his body against hers deliberately, his hands moving to her upper arms to close and hold. His fingers wrapped solidly around her biceps, his hands manacling her almost from shoulder to elbow. He lifted, pulling her arms back and pressing her forward. Though she attempted to balk she was no match for him and he half-carried, half shoved her toward her bed before pressing her face-down on it.

Though the purr never stopped Anya felt the beginnings of panic as he shoved her hips against the edge of her bed and bent her over it. He let go of her right arm with his hand for a moment and her eyes went wide when again, reality bit hard and she realized what he meant to do, what he'd meant by _submit_. She started to struggle, trying to stand up, trying to squirm away, and she was punished as he pulled her left arm back more, straining her shoulder. Then his right hand returned, this time to the back of her neck to prevent her from twisting around and to press her back over the bed. She cried out, her shoulder feeling like it was going to pop out of its socket at any minute.

"An'sha'i," L'tor rumbled, his tone harder as he continued to hold her painfully.

"No!" she barked through gritted and bared teeth. Then his hips pressed against her bottom and she hissed at the length and width of the hard heat cradled between her cheeks. "No!" she said again, thrashing on the bed, enraged and squealing.

Her scent was strong enough to drive him mad; he'd found her wetness and encouraged it with strokes of his finger, proving her receptiveness to them both. He eased her arm down, well aware of the pain he was giving her and careful not to damage her. She wanted to fight, to resist, to deny and defy. So be it. Then he would help her fuel it by hurting her enough to trigger her fighting spirit, enough to remind her that even at her most vicious and aggressive he was still stronger than her, that he would have his way.

His hand on her arm slid down to her delicate wrist and he held it tightly and pressed his knuckles into the small of her back to fix it in place. The hand on her neck moved to catch and close in her long, soft mane of hair and he applied pressure, pulling back. She resisted, using her right hand, her dominant hand, to reach back and claw at him, trying to free her hair. He rumbled, allowing it, standing behind her, holding still and waiting for her to subside, even as the amount and ferocity of fight she had in her only served to further excite him. He wasn't hurting her; he was restraining her. As she requested he would force her submission, merely by holding her where he wanted her and waiting for her to give in. He'd even given her the use of her stronger arm to let her try and free herself.

When Anya stopped to rest he shifted himself behind her, reminding her that he was aching and ready to enter her and that she was wet enough to make it easy for him as he tested her willingness. It kicked her back up to struggling, her vocalizations squeals of rage and grunts of effort.

L'tor listened carefully, alert for any sign that her resistance was fueled by true fear or panic. It wasn't, though. She was bucking and fighting out of pure anger, set off by being dominated. This was a female who had a strong, dominant personality, enough to even cow the males around her. She did not appreciate being bested or dominated by another; her mind refused to admit defeat even as her body prepared for surrender.

When she sagged again, panting hoarsely, L'tor rumbled again, "An'sha'i, An'eya," and stroked himself against her, giving her an impression of his size and eagerness. And again it set her off, the effort only cursory now in her exhaustion but still there. This was a worthy female, one to complement him. He waited patiently, pressing her into the soft bedding and knowing it was helping her resist his weight as it flexed beneath their bodies.

"An'sha'i," he said, softer, lower, his purr feeling like it was going to throb itself out of his body in its effort to calm her. He let go of her hair and caressed her back, running his hand slowly down her length, feeling the hard beating of her heart, the heat coming off her soft skin. She shuddered, this time not fighting back. Sensing her surrender he stroked against her again, his tip seeking her wetness and planting itself at her entrance. "An'sha'i," he willed her soothingly. He would teach her there was no shame in submitting to one so much stronger than yourself, in her submitting to him. She was worthy of him, he was worthy of her. He pressed against her, feeling resistance, and her head came up with a huff.

He paused and pet her again, then eased some of his weight into her at the point of resistance. She was tense, but it would only result in him hurting her there; he abruptly shifted and nudged her legs further apart, shoving as he did. The maneuver had successfully pushed him past her resistance and he growled at the tight wet heat that encountered him, moving gently and slowly now. She grunted and started to squirm on the bed again so he caught her hair and pulled her head back, lifting her wrist and forcing her into an arch. It raised her head and hips off the bed and left her panting as she tried again to resist and fight.

It took a few moments, her spirited struggling making him trill with pleasure; he waited until she surrendered and sagged into his hold. She was learning to relax and submit, gaining confidence that he wouldn't hurt her even in this, slowly accepting that she could trust him with her body. He allowed her to squirm as he pressed deeper, vocalizing his pleasure with a low groan as she shifted and flexed to accommodate him. His sex organ was similar to a human males' but larger, according to his size and build, and he needed to enter her gently unless he wanted to hurt her. He could still feel her tension, all the way to her core, and again he met resistance that made him stop.

Releasing her hair and her wrist, he placed one hand one at her waist and caressed her with the other. She remained still and docile, easing her arm around and her hand up. The view from where he stood, of her holding herself coiled on her bed with apprehension, of his sex organ buried halfway between her legs, was arousing. She was wrapped so tightly around him he could feel her heartbeat in the soft, hot walls that held him. He continued to purr, to pet, to keep one hand on her in case she attempted to pull away.

She didn't, though. He could feel her relaxing in tentative increments, aware that he was finally seeing true submission. She was calming and responding to his reassurance. Not broken, not resigned, but accepting. It made something inside him respond with a triumphant surge, with a rush of pride and pleasure and self-satisfaction. When she squirmed impatiently, lifting her hips and shifting him inside her, he growled.

He let her do it again, putting a hand on the bed beside her and resting some of his weight on it, bent over her and allowing her to grind herself against him. He pinned his weight against her legs and leaned into her, feeling her continue to squirm as he forced his way deeper. When he'd seated himself to the root he paused to catch his breath, holding still to allow her to familiarize herself with his intrusion, feeling her movements become more insistent, more adamant as she demanded more.

Like yautja, humans experienced sexual release in the act of pleasurable orgasm. It was a rare quality, one reserved for sentient life forms that mated for reasons other than simply for reproduction. He would give her her release and take his from her by force with the same method: the steady, rhythmic thrusting of his sexual organ inside her. He pressed deeper then eased back, pulling himself out until he felt her hitch beneath him before pressing himself back into her.

The sensation was incredible, the heat, the wetness, the tight fit. He did it again, drawing further out this time before he felt her objection, then again with the same results. Each time the movement was a little smoother as her body welcomed him back inside, until it became a sustained pumping that had her huffing in time to his thrusts. She lifted her hips beneath him and closed her fingers on the blanket beneath her, bracing herself with her elbows as she began to keen quietly, the sound starting in her throat. He bowed over her, fluttering his tusks against her back as he began to grunt, his purring still steady and loud.

She was going tense again as he gradually upped the pace and force, feeling her responding with pleasure, rising to meet him. He'd expected she'd submit and lie quietly, meekly allowing him to breed her; he hadn't been expecting eager participation. It pushed him to the edge of his self control and he spread his mandibles and moved his mouth to her shoulder, then bit and held on. She cried out in startled shock and pain, arching her back and lifting her head as he clamped down on her and continued to pump. It effectively stilled her, and the mixture of pain and pleasure, the sensation of him thrusting into her, his hard, rough body flexing against hers while he grunted in time put her over the edge. She huffed and trembled, feeling his strong hands close on her waist, her legs still pinned against the side of the bed, his huge hardness ramming deep inside. The orgasm surged through her with surprising power, striking her core and radiating outward like no orgasm she'd ever had before. It stayed, hovering, her body clenching in time to the steady, aggressive fucking she was receiving and she felt L'tor release her shoulder, lift his head, then roar triumphantly as he thrust harder. Her body was bathed in bursts of heat that heightened her orgasm, setting it off anew and making her scream until her voice ran out and she was left hoarse and gasping for air.

He subsided, slumping his weight onto the bed, feeling her twitch and squirm beneath him as he caught his breath. This had been a hard-won prize, one that had required strength tempered by control, that had forced his aggression while demanding restraint. His senses were still filled by her scent hammering at him but conquering her had offered temporary release. Even so, he was eager to go again, to force her submission, to feel her move beneath and around him, to hear the delicious sounds she made in response to his breeding her.

He rose and looked down at her, seeing the bleeding marks his teeth and tusks had left on her back. Breeding marks. If, by some remote chance, another yautja encountered this female without him being present, these marks would bear testimony to her status as a taken female who belonged to another. He was pleased by their size and spread and depth; the marks indicated her male as large and aggressive, in prime condition. _Touch her at your peril_, they warned ominously.

When he went to withdraw, Anya sent a hand back to touch his hip, leaving it rest there with gentle contact. He paused, considering, then moved her onto the sleeping pallet and curled himself against her back, staying locked inside her, tentative at first until he was certain the structure could bear their combined weight. It creaked and his greater weight forced the padding to sink deeply, creating a depression that pressed her body tightly against his. Her breathing had relaxed and evened, deepening into sleep. He decided to join her for a short nap, pleased by the way the weight of her body was forced against his, feeling relaxed and comfortable enough to allow himself to rest because of it.


	10. Chapter 10

A holiday weekend, a family drama and two birthdays means I had no time to finish up this story until now. Since a lot of you have wanted to know about the future of Anya and L'tor, I'm debating a Part 2...or should I just continue it here? I do have more but it's much less fleshed-out so it would require a bit of work to make it fit for publication; otherwise there would be huge jumps and gaps between one part and the next. I tend to 'see' each scene in my mind and write it out. Works for me because I get it out of my head and move on, but it would be confusing to anyone else reading it.

Thank you so much for enjoying this story and letting me know it!

The usual disclaimer applies: don't own it, don't make any money off of it.

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><p>Anya came awake slowly, languidly, as awareness returned to her in stages. She opened her eyes to her bedroom, then closed them and drew in a deep, slow breath, holding it as she stretched then letting it out in a gusty sigh. She felt warm and comfortable. Safe and at peace.<p>

There was a low grumble against her back, then the weight of an arm shifted against her flank, followed by the scalding touch of a hot, hard hand on her belly. She lifted her head and stared at the mottled, talon-tipped hand, waking up quickly and jump-starting her awareness. _L'tor_. In her bed with her. And if she wasn't mistaken, she'd just had _sex_ with the yautja. Meaning, of course, that life as she used to know it was officially over, that now there was a new sheriff in town.

She tried to get up but she was trapped in a cradle created in the mattress by the sheer weight of him. She was naked. He was naked. Shit-shit-shit. She had to do something. Move. Get up and get going.

"An'eya," L'tor grumbled, pressing her back against his hot chest. "Be still."

She subsided, her heart hammering as he aborted her attempt to go into full fledged panic mode. The panic faded out as quickly as it had appeared, and she watched the hand that had been flattened against her abdomen move away as he stretched his arm, flared his clawed fingers, then flexed until something popped in his shoulder with a meaty click. She winced then felt him shift behind her, stretching his spine with a low, masculine groan that ended in a vibrating growl. He moved like a tiger roused from a nap, striking powerful poses accompanied by the flexing and rippling of muscle; arms, back, legs, neck. Her bed creaked in protest until he finished, rolling away from her and right to his feet. Like a fuckin acrobat. It bounced the mattress back up and released her from the cradle she couldn't get out of before. It also, she couldn't help but notice, removed the heat source that had kept the chill in the room from touching her bare skin.

Anya groaned and rolled to her belly, then jerked and hissed when her face touched the pillow. Without the panic to fuel her she didn't think she was capable of movement; everything throbbed and ached. _Good good he's hung like a moose_, she thought, aware of the low ache between her legs as she put her face gingerly into her hands, exploring the bruise on the side of her face. It felt puffy to her; probably swollen. Wonderful.

"Up," L'tor rumbled. Yeah, right. Like that was gonna happen. Her hips were aching, her left shoulder was feeling funky, there was a sharp pain in the vicinity of her back and right shoulder, she was swollen in her most personal of places and she was exhausted. Getting up was not high on her list of priorities right now, and a glance at the clock on her nightstand told her it was two thirty in the morning.

"_Mph_," she grunted, cupping her face in her hands to protect it and pressing half-under and half-into a pillow.

He rumbled and she felt his touch, a huge hand on her back that smoothed down her spine and over her buttocks, all the way down her legs and to her feet. His right hand, which had made the journey downward, was replaced by his left hand, which made the return journey. It made her purr, a sound that couldn't hope to match his but conveyed her pleasure nonetheless. His touch was firm and confident while still being gentle and affectionate. And his gentleness and affection were surprising to her, though she was thankful for both, especially the affection. He didn't strike her as the affectionate type and she was under the assumption that it was a feeling he expressed for very few in his life. While he'd been gentle with her from the beginning the affection was something she felt grew grudgingly almost, over time. Like he hadn't wanted or expected to feel emotion for her and that it bothered him on some fundamental level to discover that he did.

What that meant, however, was a mystery to her. She was the easy-going type, flirty and funny and friendly with everyone she came across unless they gave her reason not to be. People _liked_ her, and she was surprised the rare times when they didn't. Like, take Sammy, for instance. She had every right not to like _him_, but he had no good reason not to like _her_. And as much as she couldn't stand him, his dislike nagged at her. She prided herself on getting people to like her.

And now what the hell had happened? Somehow she'd ended up getting the attention of a massive and grouchy yautja, not one of the younger party boys that tended to hang out with the humans in public places. No, not her. She got Mister No-Humor, Captain Serious, the King of Don't-Fuck-With-Me. He was bound and determined to put a huge yautja-fist-sized dent in her social life, she just knew it. _Hadn't he even turned on Mickey last night_? she recalled.

"Walk or carry?" L'tor's deep voice rumbled, followed by a trill of question.

_Neither, thanks. I'm good right here_, she thought. She heard him moving around her bedroom, a sound here, a sound there, incredibly stealthy for such a huge being. She was dozing off again when she felt him toss a cover over her and she smiled into her hands and relaxed even more. Later she would deal with what happened. For now, sleep. She felt another blanket tossed over her even as she felt a pull beneath her, and before she could raise her head to see what he was doing, she was being lifted. He'd wrapped her in her comforter like a tamale and scooped her off her bed, turning her onto her back so he could cradle her against his chest.

"Just a sec-" she started to say as he turned and strode to her bedroom door, but he growled and shut her up. Okay, so he hadn't been kidding about her options, and when she hadn't responded to his question he'd made the decision for himself.

She felt him squeeze her tighter against his chest, then she felt the sensation of falling, followed by a hard thump as he hit her landing, then another jump down to her living room. The hell with the stairs. It woke her up all right, and she protested by scrambling in the blanket before hearing another growled rebuke as he headed for her door. He shifted and she heard a boom as he kicked the rest of the door down, knocking it off the bottom hinges and partially out onto her front step. At two thirty in the morning.

"Would you-" she started, and he clamped down harder on her as she almost got one hand loose. It squeezed the breath out of her in one huff, effectively silencing her. She looked around to see if anyone's lights came on in response to the noise. Someone's dog was barking a few houses away but other than that nothing and no one was moving except for the yautja carrying her to who-knows-where.

"Walk!" she demanded, finally voicing her answer to the question he'd asked her earlier. He stopped abruptly, then let her legs down so she could stand. The sidewalk was cold under her bare feet and she adjusted the comforter around herself carefully, uncomfortable and aware that underneath she was stark naked. Her aches and pains hit her hard but she raised her chin before turning from the seven foot yautja standing guard over her and marched her ass back to her front door.

"An'eya..." he rumbled, then issued a rapid ticking.

"I'm getting _dressed_, okay? And I need my phone," she added, increasing her pace. She didn't hear him coming but she felt a pull on the comforter that jerked her to a stop. She aggressively tugged back, holding the comforter tightly and trying to continue to get to her front door. It probably looked, if anyone was awake and watching, comical. "Fuck it," she muttered, and abandoned the comforter, tossing it off defiantly and heading up her walk buck naked. The low rumble from behind made her bolt, her bare feet slapping against the concrete.

She cleared the door and suddenly remembered it wasn't there anymore, which meant she couldn't slam it shut and lock it. Like _that_ would have made a difference anyway. Something thudded onto the roof and as she hurried up the steps L'tor lifted the plywood and dropped onto the landing in front of her from her ripped-out skylight. She ran full force into him, finding him as forgiving as a brick wall. Damnit that pissed her off. Hurt, too. She put a hand over her shocked nose, probing it with her fingertips.

"Dat hudt," she said crossly, annoyed, still holding her nose. L'tor responded with a slow adjustment of his stance, rocking his weight to bring one leg closer to the other, flaring his tresses and issuing a thin trickle of a growl. The low sound communicated amusement and she scowled when she recognized it. "Nobt funny," she insisted, her voice still off because of the hard bang to her nose. It hadn't been his armor, either; he wasn't wearing the chest-plate and she'd smacked face-first just below his pecs, into bare flesh. The jolt alone had almost catapulted her backward down the steps she'd just cleared.

"Funny," he contradicted her. _Oh, so_ now _he decides to develop a sense of humor_? What a pisser. You just can't make this shit up.

"Where the hell are you taking me?" she demanded, leaving off with her nose once she determined it wasn't bleeding or broken.

"With me," he said simply. "Mate."

"Yeah, I noticed, believe me. Was, um, kinda hard to miss, actually."

He crossed his mammoth arms and rumbled rhythmically, looking mighty damned smug and pleased with himself as he chuckled yautja-style. "Again?" he asked, indicating a question with a soft trill as he cocked his head.

Anya gaped. Shit. So he might be an old-timer but he was an old-timer with the stamina and quick reload of a sixteen year old and the cock of a horse. Damnit was she in trouble. "You _bit_ me," she said.

"Yes. Breeding mark. Mate mark."

She cursed under her breath. "You gonna do it again?" He shrugged, a powerful shift of his shoulders that she wasn't sure how to interpret. Yes, no, maybe? I don't know, depends on how I feel at the time? "So, like, what now?"

"With me," he said again.

She sagged on her feet and lowered her gaze to think about his simple response. He wasn't stupid, and she suspected his economy of words wasn't because he didn't know enough of her language to be able to explain fully. It was just his way: simple and direct. Speaking her language was irritating to him, and having to explain himself bordered on him feeling disrespected. She had a feeling that from now on he expected her to follow his lead without question, without the need for in-depth explanations and reassurances. He'd proven himself reliable and capable; in his mind, what more did she need to know? Technically she knew she was considered a lower life form to his people, like livestock or maybe dogs. Intelligent and useful but expected to know their place and do as they were bid.

So...well, _fuck_. She looked up at him again, doe-eyed. This was _not_ what she'd expected. Personally, she'd had bigger plans for her life. He was humorless and short-tempered, driven by an honor code that would rival the best samurai. She sensed he wasn't normally gentle or patient or understanding; those qualities weren't a societal strong suit for yautja. She would have a long life and excellent health, the best of care. But her existence would be meaningless to everyone except for him. And for him she would only have meaning as long as she could successfully produce his pups. If she was unable...she shivered, deciding that didn't bear thinking on.

Not all pairings were successful and regardless of cause, the blame always fell on the human female in yautja society. None of her teachers had been able to tell them what happened to the females who found themselves unable to conceive, if they were returned to their homes, forced into some other kind of slavery, used as target practice or shot out of the torpedo tubes, metaphorically speaking.

"Will you ever let me come back here?" Anya dared to ask. "To visit, I mean?"

He shifted, a mountain of muscle that clicked and grumbled at her question. He seemed to take some time to think about it before answering, "Yes."

It brought a wash of relief, not least because he'd thought about it before answering, which led her to believe he was telling her the truth. "Can I at least get dressed?" she asked, her voice a soft, resigned sigh. "You could do me a solid by bringing the blanket in and fixing the plywood on the roof so it doesn't rain in here."

He shifted again and raised his head to look at the displaced temporary skylight. Yeah, sure. No hablan Inglés, but he apparently not only knows what plywood is and understood what she was referring to. He grunted and unfolded his arms, bending his legs and leaping back up twelve feet out of the hole he'd come in through.

"Thanks," she said as he disappeared into the darkness on her roof. She ducked underneath the gap as he grunted and shifted the wood and tarp over, grasping what needed to be done and had taken three guys to put in place.

She ran upstairs and started tearing through her drawers, pulling out panties and bra and trying to decide what she should wear. Choosing jeans, she hopped on one foot as she pulled them on and spotted her cellphone on the floor next to the pants she'd discarded earlier. She speed-dialed Helen and left her a message where to find her car keys, letting her know what was happening, asking her to put the word out and give everyone her good-byes. With the loss of her sister Anya didn't have any family left so she knew her property would end up in some probate if it was left up to the authorities to figure it out. She quickly ran through a list off the top of her head to Helen's voicemail, telling her what she wanted who to have, letting her know her front door was knocked off its hinges and her house was up for grabs to the first taker if she and the others didn't get here first. She ended with a promise that she would be back at the first opportunity, realizing that she was crying with her jeans half-on, a bra and no shirt, socks or shoes, standing in the disaster of her bedroom and possibly seeing it, and everything she owned, for the last time.

When L'tor silently appeared in the doorway and looked in at her, she was still holding her cellphone in her hand with her pants around her ankles, weeping. Life as she knew it was over and she was scared to death of what was to come. When she saw him she scooped up her shirt off the floor and roughly pulled it over her head, then cried harder when it pushed against her bruised face and pulled at the wounds on the back of her shoulder. Clutching her iPhone with a deathgrip she angrily thrashed the shirt on, gasping at the pain in her right shoulder, then pulled up her jeans.

When she looked up from fastening them L'tor was standing in front of her, his head cocked as he regarded her. Just another day in paradise for him, the smug bastard. He trilled gently, then stepped closer and bent to scoop her off her feet, lifting her easily and holding her against his warm chest. This time she didn't object, didn't struggle or thrash or put up any kind of fight. It was all worn out of her. She sagged against him and closed her eyes, still barefoot but holding her phone as he carried her out of her bedroom, repeated the jumps down her stairs, walked past the comforter lying on her living room carpet, and went through the knocked-down door. He paused on her front step and set her down to lift the door and fix it in place, then turned back to her and lifted her again, a low purr in his chest as she stood docilely, waiting.

She regressed in no time flat the moment his drop ship docked with his cruising vessel, and she headed right for the engine room. New development: a closed door that did not agreeably slide open in response to her approach. She banged off it and let loose a string of curses as her already-aching nose screamed in protest, cupping her hands over it, bumping the bruise around her eye and across her cheek, then kicking at the metal door savagely in anger. Barefoot.

Limping, holding her nose, Anya moved restlessly through the ship while L'tor wisely gave her space and busied himself elsewhere. She moved through the large combination training and sparring room, the food preparation area where she'd watched L'tor prepared the rjet steaks, the adjoining dining area where they'd eaten them. Where she had tried not to stare as he'd held each steak in his mandibles and fed it into his mouth, staring back at her with no doubt the same blatant fascination as she awkwardly tried to manipulate a knife and a paddle-like spoon to cut her steak into bite-sized pieces.

Through the clinic-lab thingy with the padded table and complicated looking equipment where he'd treated her burn and the claw-marks the grey yautja had torn into her cheeks. They were pretty much gone now but if she looked in a mirror and turned her head just so, she could still faintly see the lines that had been left, tiny scratches now.

The ship vibrated and she paused, knowing what that meant. He was going through with it, honest to god. Taking her away from her home and bringing her someplace else. This was really happening, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She came to the meeting room with the giant conference table and the giant chairs, not stopping until she reached the far wall, floor to ceiling and side to side a window. Through the wispy clouds over the face of her planet, she could see North America, her eyes automatically sliding to the west coast of the United States, shrouded in darkness. Home.

The ship's engines throbbed steadily like a beating heart, and it seemed to Anya like she was staying still while her planet eased further away. Though she supposed they were moving at incredible speed, the view outside changed only subtly. Slowly she could see more of the earth's curvature, more of its southern hemisphere. Everyone and everything she knew was already out of reach and creeping further away, leaving her with nothing but the clothes she was wearing and the iPhone still clutched in her hand.

Anya watched for hours, moving to the large chair at the nearest end of the table and boosting herself up into it, curling like a cat on the seat and leaning the weight of her upper body on the right arm as she stared in mute silence. She would come back; this wouldn't be the last time she saw her planet. As little as she knew and understood about her captor, she was certain that lying or making idle promises weren't in his nature. She wondered what was to come, and what she would be like when she returned, feeling both parts excited and terrified.

Whatever the properties of the barrier that created the window she was staring through, it gave no reflection of the room she was in. She couldn't see herself or the yautja who had entered behind her and was watching her, finally alerting her to his presence with a low purr of greeting as he stepped beside the chair she was in. Her eyes switched warily to him as he moved in front of her then sank into a crouch, blotting out a good portion of her view of earth. He reached toward her face and gently cupped her cheek in his hot palm, his thumb sliding softly over the bruise below her eye, then down the length of her dully aching nose. She winced as he probed the bone, pushing on either side. With a quiet grunt he let go of her face ad redirected his attention to her dangling foot, the one she'd kicked the door to the engine room with. Her eyes skipping between the shrinking view of her planet beyond him and the sight of her comparatively tiny and pale foot in his huge paws, she steeled herself as he began a methodical squeezing, using his thumbs to follow the delicate bones from ankle to toe, one by one. It hurt, but clearly while he was inspecting the damage she'd done to herself he was making a concerted effort to be gentle.

Satisfied, he eased her foot back into its former dangle off the tall chair, then stood smoothly and walked away. Anya blinked tiredly and returned to staring at her planet, her mind quieter for some reason. Less crowded with worry about her unknown future. L'tor returned to drape a fur over her and hand her a goblet of water, which she took as she met his amber gaze.

"Thanks," she said quietly. He nodded, then left.

It was some time before she could see the entire globe in the window, and she watched the light of the sun create a parabola over its surface, squinting her eyes at the glare as it spread. Morning was coming, the dawn of a new day.


End file.
